The Wall Lake Mystery
by cjnwriter
Summary: The theft of a diamond necklace and sudden death of a young law officer take Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson to a remote town in Iowa, where they soon find themselves hot on the trail of two of America's most infamous criminals. (Also posting on Wattpad)
1. The Game's Afoot in America

_**Chapter One**_

 **The Game's Afoot in America**

It was late January of 1886 when the sitting room door closed behind our most affluent client yet, and I could hardly contain my joy.

"Three thousand pounds!" I exclaimed, reading the figure on the cheque over Sherlock Holmes' bony shoulder.

"I daresay it will cover my half of the rent for quite some time," he said with a dry chuckle.

"The Duke really should not have," I said, still attempting to fathom that figure.

"Perhaps not," Holmes replied with a shrug, "but I am not about to turn down such a sum from one who can afford it."

"No indeed," I replied.

Silence fell for a short time, each of us lost in our thoughts. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I was imagining all the ways I might spend a cheque as large as this one. For starters, I would travel somewhere warmer—or at least more interesting—than dreary old London in the chill of winter.

"Holmes," I said tentatively. I hoped I was not intruding on some important train of thought.

"Hm?"

"Have you ever thought of travelling?"

Holmes stared quizzically.

"You know, like a holiday?"

My friend shrugged. "You know I enjoy nothing that does not stimulate the brain, Watson."

"What about for a case?" I asked, crossing to the breakfast table and picking up a letter with a return address of Paris.

"If the case is of sufficient interest," Holmes replied, casting a glance toward the letter in my hand and the rest of the unopened post on the table. We seated ourselves again, and I set to work finishing my toast, now cold. Holmes ate nothing as was often his way. I, as his friend and doctor, never liked this habit, but I could not compete with my friend's will of iron.

Holmes shoved a pile of four or five letters across the table. I eagerly obliged the request, despite the lack of verbal instructions, and began to read them. The one addressed from Paris, which had first captured my attention, was written entirely in French. Rather than embarrassing myself by demonstrating my ignorance of the tongue, I tossed the letter back to Holmes to peruse. He did not seem to notice; his focus was on the missive in his own hand, postmarked America. I glanced down at my stack and saw that the next letter in my pile also originated in America.

Noting this coincidence, and the postmark of January the thirteenth, I carefully tore the envelope and began to read.

 _Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

 _My name is Ernest Anderson, and I am in dire need of your assistance. My closest friend, Deputy Hugh Hieman of the Sac County law enforcement, died last Friday (the eighth) under circumstances that can only point to murder. The Sheriff believes it was only an accident and refuses to bring any detective into the matter, not even the official ones out of Des Moines. I am at my wit's end!_

 _Hugh was unmarried, living in the small town of Wall Lake with his mother and siblings. He travelled often to the county seat, Sac City, both for his work and to visit his beautiful fiancée, Lena Hallstrom. Hugh left for Sac City on the first train that morning, returned by train that evening, and was found dead yesterday, Saturday, morning. The sheriff insists he drank himself into a stupor and took a fall out of the bay window, but Hugh drinks wisely, and I don't know how a fall like that (it was only one story up) could kill someone so hardy and young._

 _I have a fair bit of money saved; I hope it is enough to cover your travel expenses as well as your fee. I truly appreciate your assistance, and owe my knowledge of you to my neighbor, Mrs. Pattison, who acquired a copy of_ A Study in Scarlet _and was impressed with your talents._

 _I implore you, Mr. Holmes. This was no accident, and I want whoever is responsible brought to justice._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Ernest Anderson_

I looked up from the letter to see Sherlock Holmes watching me.

"I believe I have something," said Holmes.

"As have I," I returned. "What's yours?"

"A safe robbery and jewel theft under some unique circumstances. Yours?"

"Murder of a young law officer in a small American village."

Holmes leaned intently forward. "The name of this town?"

I glanced at the letter to be sure, and replied, "Wall Lake."

Holmes long arm flashed across the table and he snatched the letter from my hands.

"The name means something to you?" I asked.

"Not until two minutes ago," he replied. "Watson, both of these letters are from the same little Iowa town, postmarked on the same day."

"What a strange coincidence!" I exclaimed.

"Perhaps…" Holmes slowly rose and retrieved his pipe. He struck a match and lit it. "But it is quite possible it is no coincidence at all. I shall take the case."

"Which one?"

A smile spread across his thin features as he brought the pipe to his lips. "Both of them," he replied, through the pipe between his teeth.

"Tell me more about this robbery." I moved from my seat at the breakfast table to my armchair by the blazing hearth.

Holmes tossed me the letter and began to pace.

I was first struck by the quality of the stationery; our two prospective clients may have written from the same locale, but they were of vastly different means.

 _Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

 _I have a pressing need for your assistance. A substantial collection of my diamonds, pearls, and other jewelry has been stolen, the value of which is nearly eight thousand dollars. Among these is a diamond necklace dating back several generations, which alone is worth nine hundred dollars. I am willing to pay whatever necessary for travel and living expenses as well as a sizable reward. I am told you are the best detective there ever was._

 _I retired young from a successful acting and singing career to marry my childhood sweetheart of Wall Lake, James Blomberg. During my working years, I purchased and acquired most of this jewelry and it was kept in a secure safe in our bedroom. My brother Albert, still pursuing his acting career in Chicago, came to visit us on the 8th of this month, and that night, my jewelry was taken from the safe without a trace, save a red handkerchief on the windowsill. Sheriff Sweet took one look at the handkerchief and told us it "means trouble". The state is sending a detective, and the Sheriff believes they can solve it. But Sheriff Sweet is growing old, and good detectives are few and far between here._

 _Please, Mr. Holmes, I implore you to help me and prove that you really are the greatest detective upon the earth._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Mrs. Clara Blomberg_

I could see why the case held Holmes' interest: not only was there the strange handkerchief and the words of the Sheriff to consider, there was both a compliment and a challenge, and as long as the case was of some interest to him, my friend's vanity and pride made it nearly impossible to resist the power of either.

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, when I looked up from the letter. "What do you make of it?"

"It's curious," I replied.

"Indeed," said he, and in four long strides he had crossed the room and was rummaging through his catalog of all notable criminals and celebrities from the past quarter century. He muttered something I could not quite hear, clenched his pipe between his teeth, and began to make rather a mess of the papers through which he was searching.

"Ah! Here it is!" exclaimed Holmes.

I breathed a sigh of relief; the quicker he found something, the less tidying required later.

"The notorious Jesse Cleveland Wright, known to many as 'Cleaver' Wright," said Holmes.

I shook my head. "The name is unfamiliar."

Holmes' jaw slackened as he stared at me with abject shock.

I laughed. "You must remember that you are the criminal expert, not I."

Holmes scoffed. "You shall have to keep amassing your knowledge. Let us begin with Mr. Wright, the most deranged murderer the American Midwest ever produced. He has been at his trade for nearly thirteen years though he has not yet walked this earth thirty."

I raised an eyebrow. "Terrifying, but I am afraid I fail to see the relevance."

"All in good time," said Holmes, puffing on his pipe. "Wright is allegedly responsible for eight known murders and dozens of thefts. His particular calling card, as of the last four years—" he shot me an intense glance, eyes bright with excitement "—is a red handkerchief."

"Ah!" I exclaimed.

"There is our connection." Holmes turned to the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted as the door opened to reveal our estimable landlady herself, clad in an apron and an exasperated expression.

"There is no need to shout," said she, bustling past Holmes to collect the breakfast things. "I am not yet so old as that."

"Watson and I will be leaving you for at least a month, perhaps as long as two," said Holmes.

"Where?" she asked, stacking dishes upon the tray. "Somewhere warm, I hope?"

"America," Holmes replied, "to a remote village in Iowa."

"Exciting!" Mrs. Hudson replied, "Though no warmer than here, this time of year."

"Quite so," Holmes replied, with a sideways glance at me. "But Watson has always wanted to be a swashbuckling cowboy."

If Holmes had been closer at hand, I would have elbowed him.

Mrs. Hudson made no attempt to hide her smirk. "Unfortunately for you two potential cowboys, my understanding is that Iowa is not far enough into the Wild West for that." With that, she swept from the room.

Now it was my turn to smirk.

"Remember, Watson, I am not the expert in romantic fiction!"

I grinned outright. "You shall have to keep amassing your knowledge, then."

Holmes growled something rude, then tossed a couple sheets of foolscap before me and dictated replies to both letters, and a telegram in case we arrived at the same time as those missives. Sealing them tightly, he informed me he was off to purchase tickets for the next ship bound for the United States.

Little did we then suspect the fantastic and horrific developments that would occur before our adventure's conclusion.


	2. A Frigid Welcome

_**Chapter Two**_

 **A Frigid Welcome**

Two days after receiving our clients' letters, Holmes and I were aboard a ship bound for America, set to arrive in New York in eight days. My time in the army had allowed me to travel, but only to the hot and bloody plains of Afghanistan, and my budget had constrained me to a 200-mile radius since then. As such, I was excited to see the States. Holmes was also excited, I think, though he never said so outright. I believe, that like me, he had never crossed the Atlantic before.

While on board the ship, I managed to convince Holmes to join me in a few rounds of billiards and fencing, the former of which I won with ease and the latter I lost more miserably than I care to admit. We were rather enjoying ourselves by the end of the journey though Holmes' mind rarely left his impending case, and eight days was enough time away from dry land for us both to miss it.

We reached New York City's upper bay at ten, and the mid-morning sun set the waves glittering as our ship entered the harbour. The cloudless sky, shining sea, and unfamiliar city spread before us made for a truly splendid sight, though it was almost too cold to appreciate it.

To my disappointment, we saw little of New York City, as we had barely enough time to retrieve our luggage and trade our pounds for dollars before we were due at Grand Central Terminal to catch the late morning train to Chicago. It stopped few times en route, and travelled at a rapid clip, bringing us to the Windy City late the next evening. Last minute hotel accommodations were found more quickly and easily than I had hoped; luckily, Holmes and I were too exhausted to mind the cramped space and dubious cleanliness of the place.

Early the next morning, we traded the New York Central line for the Chicago and Northwestern Line. This train carried us due west over rolling hills and rivers, past villages and farmland interspersed with small cities, these latter reaping the benefits of the ever-expanding railway system. Our locomotive chugged steadily through the Illinois cities of Proviso, Geneva, and Nelson, and crossed the great Mississippi into Iowa's Clinton, then on through Belle Plaine, Ames, Caroll, and finally north to Carnarvon and a touch west again to Wall Lake itself.

Wall Lake was a small yet bustling community of perhaps three hundred and fifty, counting the nearest farms. It was a young community, with its quick growth attributed to the railroad lines bringing supplies and settlers, especially overcrowded Americans in the eastern states and immigrants from Germany and Ireland.

As eager as I was to explore this new place, Holmes decided to drop off our luggage at the inn and take the train another forty-five minutes to Sac City and speak with Sheriff Sweet. The time passed more slowly, but soon we came over a rise and I could see a cluster of buildings amid the snowy fields. As the county seat, I thought the town would be larger than its neighbour to the south, but Wall Lake's proximity to a railway direct from Chicago ensured this was not the case. Sac City could, however, boast having the only Sheriff, only jailhouse, and only fairgrounds in the county.

After asking directions of a lad in the street, we found ourselves outside the little jailhouse. Holmes knocked on the door.

"It's open," called a voice from within.

Holmes turned the squeaky knob, and I followed him inside, glad for the warmth. We stood in an office with a little fireplace, a littler window and two desks. Behind the larger desk sat a broad-shouldered man with white hair and a thick moustache, a cigar stuck between his teeth.

"Sheriff Charley Sweet," he said, rising and shaking Holmes' hand and then mine. His name seemed to me to be a misnomer; when Holmes stated our names and business, the Sheriff fixed us both with a steely gaze. He sat again and gestured to a couple of stools against the wall. Holmes and I retrieved them and seated ourselves as well.

The Sheriff removed the cigar from his mouth and turned it over in his hands. "I suppose I don't have much choice if two of my people have consulted you, Mr. Holmes, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Clear?"

"Yes, quite so," replied Holmes, unruffled by the Sheriff's manner. "When the time comes, I hope this does not mean you will avoid sharing knowledge you already possess of these recent events."

"We'll see," Sheriff Sweet grunted, and puffed on the cigar.

"I have only a small question at present," said Holmes. "How might we reach the Blomberg residence before dusk?"

"Take a carriage," Sweet replied. "Most boys 'round here know where everybody lives and they'll get you there all right."

"Excellent," Holmes replied, rising. "We shall not intrude on your hospitality any longer." He started for the door.

I followed.

"Sheriff," said Holmes, stopping with his hand on the knob.

Sweet glanced up from the papers on his desk

"I am not in the habit of robbing local authorities of their credit in the solution of cases. On the contrary—I do my utmost to keep my name out of the matter."

"Great," the Sheriff replied, returning to the paperwork. "The detective Des Moines sent—young thing; claims he's twenty-one, but this kid doesn't look a day over seventeen—he'll want all the credit anyhow."

Holmes gave a soft snort. "The young ones always do."

"Well, good day, you two," said Sheriff Sweet. "I expect we'll meet again sooner than we care to."

"Until then," Holmes replied.

We retreated to the chilly street. Holmes quickly sought out a man to drive us to Wall Lake. We rode in silence for perhaps ten minutes before my friend spoke.

"What did you make of him, Watson?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Quite unenthusiastic about our presence here."

"Quite." Holmes lapsed into thoughtful silence.

I half considered asking him if he'd managed to deduce anything else about the Sheriff, but based on Holmes' distant expression, he was in no mood to answer—that is, if he heard me at all.


	3. Mrs Blomberg

_**Chapter Three**_

 **Mrs. Blomberg**

I shivered. It was deucedly frigid for such a sunny afternoon, and I missed the protection from cold and rough terrain that the train provided, for this rough wagon did not. The old war wound in my shoulder ached, and I was thoroughly chilled—and certain Holmes was faring at least as poorly—when we arrived again in Wall Lake. It happened that our driver was a recent German immigrant to Sac City, and did not know where the Blomberg residence was, nor was he fluent in English. Holmes called out to a lad of perhaps fourteen on the street.

"Young man, where might we find the home of Mrs. Clara Blomberg?"

He pointed south. "That way, on the edge of town. Big place, painted blue, you can't miss it." He squinted. "Are you two the London detectives here to find her diamonds?"

"I am," Holmes replied. "Watson here is my biographer and physician."

The boy grinned. "I'm Jack, and pleased to meet you both. I, for one, wish you luck, but there are a few folks who would prefer you hadn't come. They dislike meddling and outsiders, and especially outsiders who meddle."

"They are not unique to your community," said Holmes with a wry smile.

Jack chuckled. "I suppose not."

It was a short ride to the home of Mrs. Blomberg. Though not dissimilar in style to the nearby homes, it was immediately evident that the Blombergs had more money than their neighbours and were not opposed to a little grandiosity. The house was asymmetrical in structure, and its bright blue colour and architectural complexity bordered on a gaudiness only ameliorated by the neat white fence surrounding the front garden.

Holmes paid our driver, and I thanked him. The man urged the chilled horses to the direction they had come. As we approached, I noted the large bay windows, small tower, and two second-floor balconies. We approached the thick wooden door and Holmes knocked. A moment later, a young woman in an apron answered.

"Good afternoon gentlemen," she said stiffly.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, here to speak with Mrs. Clara Blomberg."

He handed her his card, and she ushered us inside to a couple of chairs by the sitting room fireplace. I was beginning to regain feeling in my extremities when our client entered. Clara Blomberg was a small, slim creature with a pleasantly round face, large, dark eyes and beautiful chestnut hair pinned loosely against her head. She could not have been older than five and thirty.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," said she. Her voice was sweet and a little low; she must have been an astounding alto during her years in operettas.

"I could hardly allow such an interesting case to pass me by," Holmes replied as we rose respectfully from our seats.

"All the same," she continued, seating herself across from us, "For such a great distance—"

"Speak of it no more," said Holmes kindly. "Tell us more about this case."

Holmes did not need to glance in my direction to know I was prepared to take notes; the act of extracting a notebook and pen from my coat pocket as soon as Holmes began speaking to a client now occurred so instinctively that I daresay I would do it even in my sleep.

"The evening before I was robbed," our fair client began, "My brother Albert had come to visit, so James and I invited my sisters along with their husbands and children for dinner. They all only live an hour or two away by train, but we see one another so rarely, it was an exciting occasion. My two married sisters, Emma and Martha, were able to come, but my youngest sister, Alice, had another engagement, unfortunately."

"Was there anyone else at this gathering?"

"Only Amy, the girl you met at the door."

"Thank you." Holmes gestured for her to continue.

"We dined together, pleasant as can be. We spoke of—" Mrs. Blomberg paused half a moment and gave a little shake of her head. "Albert's goings on, local gossip, and those such things. Amy laid supper at five, and my sister Emma left with her family around eight, and Martha left only half an hour after that. James and I went to bed around nine. I read for a short while, perhaps till half-past. I do not know how much later it was when Albert went to bed. I was asleep before I heard his feet on the stairs, though, so I doubt it was before a quarter to ten.

"I slept soundly enough, until I was awoken by a chill around one. I opened my eyes to see James crouched next to our window, curtains pulled back and shutters cracked open, and staring down at our safe in the corner.

"'James?' I asked, not yet awake enough to form a coherent question.

"'My dear,' he said, 'we've been robbed!'

"I leapt out of bed and sure enough, the safe in the corner stood open, with only a few heirlooms and trinkets worth little to anyone but us. But not only had the safe been pillaged, my jewellery box on the dresser, my husband's fine watch from the nightstand, and the earrings from my very ears were taken."

"Dear me!" Holmes' eyes lit up with excitement.

I shot him a disapproving look, and Holmes schooled his features into a mask of professionalism.

"Are you and your husband light sleepers?" he asked.

"At times I am, though I had plenty to drink that night, and my husband could sleep through a tornado, even if it picked up our house."

"I see," Holmes replied. "Your letter mentioned a red handkerchief; you seem to have excluded it from today's narrative.

"Oh, that!" said Mrs. Blomberg. "As it turns out, it was probably only my husband's. He has a red one he was using that night, and he believes he probably dropped it while readying for bed."

"Why was this not his conclusion at the time?"

"It was, but the Sheriff made such a stir about it that it seemed worth mentioning. James might have dropped it any number of places in the house; I'm not confident enough to swear either way about the matter."

"I see," Holmes replied, outwardly polite, but I could see him turning this theory over in his mind. He was unconvinced. "Might I observe the scene of this theft?"

"By all means." Mrs. Blomberg rose.

We followed her up a wide staircase to the upper story. Ornate paintings adorned the walls, along with bits of calligraphy in ornate frames.

"My husband loves art, and my sister Martha has the most beautiful handwriting," our client explained.

The room we sought was at the end of the hall. It was simply but elegantly furnished, with a large bed, nightstands on either side of it, a bureau, closet, and mid-sized safe in the corner. A similar safe had once taken Holmes an hour to crack; our criminals were no amateur thieves.

"This is the window by which your husband stood?" Holmes squinted at the sill, then retrieved a magnifying glass from his coat.

"Yes, it is," she replied. "I've tried to have as little as possible moved, especially at this side of the room."

Holmes opened the window and examined the sill from the inside before sticking his head and shoulders out of it. He looked to the left, right, and finally down before closing it again. He then began his examination of the rest of the room. It did not take him long; there was little use in noting details about the room that had doubtless been changed since the crime took place. He then asked our lovely client a few small questions about the contents of the safe, declined her generous offer to pay for our first two nights at the local inn, and we prepared to leave.

Mrs. Blomberg accompanied us to the door and was about to usher us out when Holmes turned on his heel and fixed the lady with a steely gaze usually reserved for Scotland Yard Inspectors and unruly children.

"If you ever see fit to tell me the whole truth, you know where to find me."

Mrs. Blomberg's expression contorted with shock and confusion, and with that, Holmes threw open the door and marched into the chill January wind.


	4. Young Mr Anderson

_**Chapter Four**_

 **Young Mr. Anderson**

I followed Holmes out the door, no less confused than Mrs. Blomberg. "What on earth was that?" I asked.

"She is concealing something from us, friend Watson. Recall how she could recount to us everything in detail except the topics of dinner conversation, which she stopped herself from sharing.

"Perhaps she thought it unimportant," I suggested.

"No, no; even if she had, she would have been more specific than 'local gossip'. Something was being discussed that she desires to keep concealed. I have no doubt she is a skilled actress upon the stage, but every player has his—or in this instance, her—tell."

"I think you are mixing your metaphors," I said with a grin, but Holmes was already lost in his own thoughts.

We had walked perhaps fifty yards when I heard footsteps behind us. I looked over my shoulder and saw what might have been a furtive shape slipping into the shadows, but may have also been a squirrel. It was too dark to tell. A sudden anxiety crept over me, and I could not shake the feeling we were being followed, as unfounded as it seemed. I was loath to break Holmes' train of thought, but he had already noticed the noise.

"Have no fear, Watson," Holmes whispered. "I am well-armed, should our pursuer have intentions of doing us harm."

It was not simply paranoia. I was not sure if I felt better or worse about the situation.

We arrived at the inn without incident, but that was not the last we heard of our mysterious pursuer.

* * *

I was eager to stay in the light, warmth, and safety of the inn, but Holmes had other plans. I had just enough time to consume a hearty supper—much to my relief; such occasions were rather too rare while on Holmes' cases—before we set off to meet with our next client: young Anderson.

It was dark indeed when we arrived at the little farmhouse at the edge of town. It was small, but by no means squalid, and we sat before the fire in the sitting and dining room with reasonable comfort to speak with our client.

Ernest Anderson was a young man, nineteen years of age, I later learned, with a ruddy face, a shock of unruly ginger hair, and the most open, honest features one is likely to see in the face of another.

"Good evening to you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he said quietly, looking with uncertainty between us.

"Sherlock Holmes, at your service," Holmes said.

"And I am Dr. Watson." I smiled warmly, hoping to put the young man more at ease.

"Pleasure to meet you both," said Anderson. "I don't mean to be rude, but could you keep your voices soft? My littlest siblings have gone to bed and it'll be easier on all of us if they stay that way."

"Of course, Mr. Anderson," said Holmes in a lower tone.

Anderson gave a smile. "No need to be so formal. I'll answer to Anderson or Ernie." He clasped his hands together. "Now, where do I begin?"

Holmes leaned forward, fixing our client with an intent gaze. "Tell us everything you know for certain about Mr. Hieman's actions on the day preceding his death, and any events previous that may have some connection to it."

Anderson shook his head. "Any way I figure, it all came out of the blue. But I know it was no accident."

"Provide me with enough information to prove it."

I fished my notebook and a pencil from the depths of a coat pocket.

Anderson paused to collect his thoughts, a troubled look sinking into his fresh face. "Hugh mentioned in passing a few days before that he intended to meet his fiancée, Lena Hallstrom, that day. When he did so before, he would always take the earliest train out of town and return by one of the latest ones. I've checked the train schedules to be sure, and this means he was leaving town by eight and would have arrived in Sac City around a quarter to nine. The last train back from Sac City leaves at half-past eleven, but it's likely Hugh returned by the ten-fifteen, in which case he would have arrived back at the Wall Lake station at eleven. His house is a five-minute walk from the station, and Mrs. Pattison, who lives down the street from Hugh, swears she saw Hugh out her window at eleven exactly, headed toward home. She says he was walking quickly, but it was a powerful cold night, so she didn't think it was odd, or see anything that seemed amiss.

"When they found his body in the morning—" Anderson's voice began to shake.

I offered to pour him a brandy, but he declined.

Anderson swallowed hard, face now white as a sheet and continued. "I was coming into town that morning—needed a couple new horseshoes—and heard shouts coming from near Hugh's home. They live above their little store on Main Street. I elbowed past the confused folks starting to gather, wondering who my unfortunate friend might have invited over that would have died in the night. Call me a fool, but I didn't think for a moment it could be Hugh. I barged into the shop—"

Personally, I had a difficult time picturing the timid and lanky Anderson "barging" anywhere.

"—and there was no one there, so I went out through the back door and saw Sheriff Sweet standing with the doctor behind the building. They heard me, must have, and turned to face me, but all I saw was Hugh, on the ground, blood soaking into the snow."

Anderson had gone from too pale to grey in the face, but Holmes was oblivious.

"What is the doctor's name?" asked Holmes.

"Dr. Mauer," said Anderson.

"Pray continue," said Holmes.

I cut in. "Do not feel obliged to give us any more information about the state of your friend when you arrived. I have no doubt Dr. Mauer can provide such information."

Anderson breathed a shaky sigh of relief. "I'll tell you what else I know. In the dining room, there was an open bottle of liquor at the table, and the theory is that he drank himself into a stupor because Lena broke off their engagement, and then fell or threw himself out the bay window."

Holmes' brow furrowed, and I nearly dropped my pencil in shock. Was it possible that the unfortunate man's death was really a case of depressed overindulgence?

Anderson shook his head emphatically. "Hugh was never one to drink too much, even if he was feeling a bit down, and he would never drink alone. There is too much unexplained for this to be an accident." Young Anderson stared hard at Sherlock Holmes, almost daring the detective to contradict him. I could see the lad's growing defiance beneath his meek exterior and was relieved by Holmes' diplomacy in response.

"I draw no conclusions until I am in full possession of the facts," said Holmes. "In the meantime, is there anything else you wish to add?"

Anderson thought for a moment, then replied, "I personally don't think this is relevant to the matter at hand, but some folks around here are suggesting that since Hugh was a little hard up for money, he might have stolen the diamonds from Mrs. Blomberg and sold them."

Holmes muttered, "And then in a sudden fit of remorse, drank himself into an early grave?"

"I agree," said Anderson. "It doesn't add up. Hugh and I have been friends all our lives, and I know he would never wrong a person. He could be a little irregular, even reckless, but nobody could call him selfish, or suspect him to be a crook. For God's sake, Hugh's been the Wall Lake deputy since he was sixteen! Three years after his father died doing the same job. But that didn't stop Hugh from wanting to uphold the law." Anderson's voice shook with grief and fury. "He was a good man and a great friend, and it's not right his being slandered this way."

"Young Anderson," said Holmes softly, "It is my duty to seek truth and ensure justice is served. I am prepared to do everything in my power to put things aright."

Anderson gave a shaky sigh. "Thank you."

"I do have one more question," said Holmes. "Do you know how early it would be convenient to call on Dr. Mauer?"

Anderson frowned. "He's a fairly early riser, so you could probably knock at his door as early as seven and find him awake and ready, but if you're exhausted from travel, there would be no harm in waiting till half-past seven, or closer to eight. It'll be light enough to see without a lantern by then.

Holmes thanked him, and we departed. My friend's bright eyes and keen expression told me he would be awake most of the night and then ensure we were up early enough to knock on Dr. Mauer's door at five minutes to seven.

"It's an interesting little problem, eh, Watson?" said Holmes as we rushed toward the inn and its promise of warmth.

"Indeed," I replied, though my thoughts were more upon the tragedies undergone by more than one in this town.

It must have been evident from my tone, for Holmes' expression softened. "My dear fellow, these troubles will be put to an end as soon as I solve the mysteries behind them, and the sooner you get yourself to bed, the sooner we can pursue that end."

We rounded the corner, and I could see light flooding from the inn's windows. I made short work of the remaining paces, Holmes at my heels, only stopping when the door closed behind us.

"You shall be up all night smoking, I suppose?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so, Doctor," Holmes replied, leading the way to our rooms.

"Well, good night regardless," I said pulling my key out of my pocket.

Holmes returned the nocturnal well-wishing, but his mind was already back on the case. I turned the key to enter the small room in which I would live for a couple of weeks. It was a decided step down from my Baker Street accommodations, but my military career and time with Holmes had put me up in far worse places. I stoked the fire, dragged my cot a few feet closer to it, and collapsed into bed without bothering to unpack.

I did not sleep well. My mind was working too feverishly: Was the death of Deputy Hugh Hieman a tragic accident, suicide, or deliberate murder?


	5. A Scrap of Cloth

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! I really appreciate it. Now, onward! To the story...**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Five**_

 **A Scrap of Cloth**

It was too early for my liking after such a restless night that I felt Holmes shaking me awake.

"You have eight minutes to ready yourself," said Holmes.

I groaned and passed a hand over my eyes. The only light in the room came from the dying embers of the fire.

"Of course," continued Holmes, "I could always speak to Dr. Mauer without you."

My brain was too sleep-addled to tell if he was teasing me or not. "No, that won't be necessary." I struggled into a sitting position.

Holmes snorted. "Seven and a half," he said and swept from the room.

I was ready in a hair under seven minutes when all was said and done. I checked that my doctor's bag held the investigation tools we might need and inhaled a little black coffee while Holmes asked the innkeeper's wife for directions to Dr. Mauer's practice, and then we were on our way.

The sky was clear and the dim, predawn light was enough by which to see. It was a short walk, as was everything in Wall Lake, and in under ten minutes Holmes was marching up the frosty steps and knocking on the door.

It was answered a minute later by a middle-aged man in thick-lensed glasses. "Are you the London detectives?" he asked, squinting through the dark.

"I am," Holmes replied. "And you are Dr. Mauer?"

"Yes, yes, now come in out of the cold," the doctor said, ushering us inside. It was warmer inside though not much brighter. "My practice is down here, but my wife and I live upstairs, and while it's more comfortable up there, I try not to wake her before nine of a morning or she's a bear all day." He chuckled, seeming to expect some commiserative comment, but Holmes and I were bachelors. "No matter," Dr. Mauer continued, expression turning serious. "If you are here to speak to me about Hugh Hieman, I suggest we step back into the cold and impose on his unfortunate family before their store opens this morning. I'm sure Mrs. Hieman would rather we come knocking before sunrise than while folk come in looking for shoes."

Holmes nodded. "Of course, but I would like to put a couple questions to you before we do."

Dr. Mauer gestured for Holmes to continue. I set down my bag; my arm was already weary.

"What time was Hugh Hieman's body found, and what time did you arrive?"

"It was before seven, but not by much, and he had been dead several hours. One of Hugh's younger siblings came to fetch me right away. I was there an hour before the Sheriff arrived."

"Cause of death?

"Blow to the forehead, fracturing the frontal bone near his right temple. There were other minor injuries from the fall."

"Is there any possibility of poison?"

"A moderate alcohol content, but I found no sign of any poison. And with such a head injury, it would have been superfluous."

"Could the injury have been caused by a push from behind?"

"About as likely as a hard fall," Dr. Mauer replied. "Though this killer would have to be quiet indeed to make it to the upper story, throw Hugh out of the window and leave undetected by the rest of the family."

I thought of the earrings stolen from Mrs. Blomberg's ears. "A skilled burglar, perhaps?" I asked, gauging Holmes' expression.

Holmes gave a curt nod. "You seem to follow my line of reasoning, Watson. Perhaps these cases are connected after all."

Dr. Mauer frowned. "To the robbery at the Blombergs? If there's a connection, I have yet to see it."

"That is my job," replied Holmes. "Now, let us proceed to the Hieman's residence."

I picked up my doctor's bag while Dr. Mauer donned his winter things, and he led us across the street to a similar building with a sign proclaiming "Hieman Shoes, Boots and Belts" on a wooden sign above the door.

The door was answered by a petite woman approaching middle age. She had a kind, round face and tired circles under each eye.

"Good morning, Doctor, we're not quite ready to sell any shoes—" She faltered when she saw Holmes and me standing behind Dr. Mauer, and her expression darkened. "You are the London detectives?"

"I do apologise," said Holmes, "but I'm afraid I must examine your dining room and back garden."

"Of course," she said stiffly, and led us through a small shoe shop and up a back staircase to a room with a table, several chairs, a small hearth, and all matter of shoe paraphernalia lying about.

Holmes had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low ceilings.

"The whiskey was there, on the table." Mrs. Hieman pointed to a spot a foot from the edge of the table nearest the window.

"Might I borrow the bottle, to test it for poison?" Holmes inquired.

I glanced to Dr. Mauer, who shrugged as if to say, "No offense taken."

"Of course," said Mrs. Hieman. "It's downstairs, but I'll bring it to you before you leave."

Dr. Mauer spoke. "It is safest to be thorough."

"In which chair did your son usually sit?" Holmes asked.

Mrs. Hieman pointed to the chair parallel to the window, well in reach of a bottle, if one sat where the whiskey had that fateful night.

I looked up from the little chair to the bay window next to it. I could practically see the scene playing out in my mind: the young man, drinking sorrowfully for a time, then rising to gaze upon the night sky. Perhaps he threw the window open to breathe some fresh air, or to better see the moon… Then the killer, like a thief in the night, gave the poor inebriated soul that push over the edge of the sill, the push over the edge of life, stealing it, and leaving only death and grief in his wake. I looked away.

Holmes already had his magnifying glass out and was carefully examining the edge of the table, the chair, and the windowsill each in turn. He frowned. "Perhaps a look outdoors will prove more fruitful."

Before Holmes finished his sentence, a boy of perhaps five or six crept into the room.

"Mom?" he said, glancing nervously between us all.

"It's all right, Henry," said Mrs. Hieman with a tired smile.

Dr. Mauer broke in. "We can see ourselves outside. Take care."

"Thank you, Doctor," she replied, scooping the boy into her arms; though he was nearly too old for such a gesture, it seemed to calm him.

The back garden was accessible from a door near the base of the stairs. It was small and unfenced, with a line for hanging laundry and a patch of dirt that would transform into a vegetable garden come spring, but little else. It had snowed since the fall of Hugh Hieman from the window, but Dr. Mauer showed us where the snow could be brushed aside and blood appeared on some rough stones near the house, as well as a few splatters on the back wall itself.

"Why all of the rocks?" I asked.

"The children collect them from nearby creeks and ponds," replied Dr. Mauer. "I suppose it's something to do in the summer and something to look at in the winter."

Holmes crouched low over the rocks, then dropped to his knees in the snow, his eye an inch away from the magnifying glass, the glass an inch from the ground. Then his gaze travelled upward to the house, stopping about eighteen inches up. "Ah! Watson, your forceps, please, and an envelope!"

I rifled through my bag, wondering what he had found, and handed him the tools he sought.

Holmes carefully pulled a tiny scrap of something green from the rough wood and placed it so it was lying flat on the envelope in his hand. The sunrise was far enough along now that I could see quite clearly.

"Young lady," said Holmes, gesturing to a girl peeking out from inside the back door. I did not notice her until that moment.

The girl jumped and opened the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Did your brother wear any clothing this shade of green his last day? A tie, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "No, sir, his tie was purple. Lena liked his purple tie best, so he always wore it when he went to visit her."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "Now go back inside to your mother."

Dark eyes wide, she flitted back inside.

Holmes turned to Dr. Mauer.

"I cannot swear it was purple, but I am prepared to swear his clothing was too dark to be of the material from that cloth."

"Come, Watson," said Holmes. "Observe the stains upon this cloth." He passed his magnifying glass to me. Holmes motioned that I examine the cloth closely, so I obliged. One side was a strange light shade of olive, but the other was completely covered in brownish stains.

"Which side was facing upward when you found it?" I asked.

"The green side," Holmes replied, holding out his hand for the magnifying glass.

I handed it to him and thought for a moment. "But what does that tell us?"

Holmes scoffed and gently lifted the cloth with the forceps and tucked it into the envelope. "Do you truly not see, Watson?" He rose to his full height. "The only way that is possible is if our man caught his tie on the wall after Mr. Hieman's death, but before the blood dried."

My mind raced feverishly, the only possible explanation hitting me like a blow.

Dr. Mauer gasped. "My God! But what does it mean?"

"It means we can be certain this was no accident. Who, but a killer, would have been here before the blood dried, and leaned in such a way that his tie caught upon the house."

"How do you know it is from a tie, and not a pantleg, or something?" Mauer asked.

"The material," Holmes replied. "It is too fine to be anything but a tie, or perhaps a handkerchief. The killer must have leaned over Hugh's body, perhaps to ensure the fall had killed him."

The doctor shook his head. "It makes perfect sense, but I would never have thought of it."

A hint of a smile quirked the corners of Holmes' lips. He said nothing, but handed me the forceps and placed the envelope in the breast pocket of his overcoat. For the next couple of minutes, he carefully examined the area for clues.

Dr. Mauer looked on in fascination. His childlike curiosity and awe reminded me of how I felt the first time I saw Holmes investigate (while in Lauriston Gardens where Enoch Drebber was killed in the case I have published under the name _A Study in Scarlet_ ) _._ The thought made me smile, despite the grimness of the case.

When Holmes had concluded his search, he made a small noise of frustration. "It looks as though that scrap is the only thing useful to us, unless I find something in that whiskey bottle." He pocketed the magnifying glass and turned to Dr. Mauer. "Thank you for your time, Doctor."

"It has been a pleasure," Dr. Mauer replied. "I have never seen a real detective at work before."

Holmes was already walking in the back door of the house, likely having not heard a word.

Dr. Mauer turned to me. "You assist him, then?"

I nodded as we followed Holmes back indoors. "When I can be of use. I tend to tag along on Holmes' adventures to take notes and act as a sounding board. It keeps life interesting."

Mauer chuckled. "I imagine so. It was good meeting you, Watson." He shook my hand. "Take care." He bid good day to the lady of the house, then took his leave.

Mrs. Hieman held aloft a half-empty bottle of whiskey and Holmes took it.

"Thank you," he said. "Would it be convenient for you if I returned at three to discuss what I learn and how things stand?"

Mrs. Hieman nodded. "Convenient enough."

"Excellent," replied Holmes, and with that, we departed.


	6. Observation and Deduction

_**Chapter Six**_

 **Observation and Deduction**

I hurried to catch up to Holmes, who was striding forward at a rapid clip, oblivious to nearly all about us.

I wanted to ask him more about the scrap of green cloth, but I knew when he was in this state he would never hear me, let alone respond. So I followed him gamely onward, wondering if we would return to the inn for some late breakfast, for my stomach was protesting its current state rather loudly.

To my embarrassment, one of my stomach's growls distracted Holmes from his thoughts. For a moment, anger flashed across his features, but then he turned to me, a smile playing across his lips. "We had better find you some food, or I daresay your stomach might climb out of you and eat me!"

I chuckled. "I must confess to being famished. Will you have something?"

Holmes shrugged and turned left, back towards the inn. "I suppose I could partake in something small."

"It would make my job as your physician a bit easier."

Holmes only shook his head.

"Have you deduced anything about that scrap of cloth?" I asked before he could return to his reverie.

"Only that we will find the rest of the tie belongs to a short, muscular American, who is also likely a bachelor and a murderer."

I cast Holmes an inquisitive look, unable to see the connections as he could.

Holmes sighed, his irritation obvious. "Come, Watson! It is absurdly simple."

"For you, perhaps," I replied, opening the inn's front door and following Holmes inside.

"If he was a tall man," said Holmes, lowering his voice as we came within earshot of others, "the tie would not have caught so low upon the house, even if he bent lower than necessary to check Hieman's neck for a pulse."

I nodded, my brain working furiously to connect the others. "That he is the murderer or an accomplice is pretty obvious from the bloodstain and location in which we found it, and he would need to be muscular to throw a man out of a window." When Holmes did not respond, I realised his attention was not on my words but on the scene playing out at the table nearest the kitchen.

A man stood there, speaking in a low voice with the innkeeper.

"It is our shadow from last night," Holmes muttered, his voice barely audible.

I squinted at the man; it had been too dark for me to make out more than the silhouette of the figure, but Holmes' nighttime vision was superior to mine.

As unobtrusively as possible, we made our way across the dining room and into the hall. The men across the room did not seem to notice our presence, but my heart sank a little when I saw the flash of coins exchanging hands.

We had reached the door and headed down the hall towards our rooms.

"I shall have a word with our innkeeper, once his unsavoury acquaintance departs," said Holmes.

"Half a moment." I stopped Holmes before he could enter his room. "How did you know the owner of the tie was an American and a bachelor?"

Holmes pursed his lips with irritation but answered my question regardless. "Even a short man would have to wear a somewhat long tie to snag it so low, and the current American style matches that description. The fact that he is a bachelor is perhaps the most obvious thing about it. It was certainly what came to my mind first."

"Not so with me," I replied, wishing my brains were a little quicker and my eyes more prone to noticing the important facts.

"The colour, Watson!"

"Pardon?"

Holmes shook his head. "No man with a woman in his life would be allowed to wear anything in such a hideous shade of green. The man would hear about how horrid it is until he gives it away or burns it."

Now that I thought back on it, the cloth was a rather putrid shade of green.

Holmes glanced at his watch. "I imagine that chap is gone by now, leaving us free to have breakfast."

We returned to the inn's dining room and parlour and took a seat by the window. I asked the woman for hot breakfast for two while Homes had a quiet word with the innkeeper. My friend arrived at our table within five minutes.

"I had a most interesting little chat," said Holmes, the corners of his mouth twitching as he seated himself across from me. "I daresay I learned more about our sneaking friend than he did about us, without the assistance of coins. Apparently, the innkeeper dislikes conspiracies but is rather hard up for money of late. The sneaking man is Silas Albright, a local woodworker and younger brother to a John Albright, the priest of this parish. The young Albright is careless with his finances and is suspected of cheating at cards. The local impression is that he is the sort of man who will, in the words our estimable innkeeper, 'do damn near anythin' to make a buck.'"

I snorted at Holmes' attempt to mimic the Midwestern American accent.

"Hush, Watson," said Holmes. "I should like to see you do better."

"Anyway," I said. "It is not this Albright fellow we should be worried about, but rather the one who is filling his pockets."

"Precisely," Holmes replied. "Though we should not entirely disregard Albright; he is likely armed, and I should not like to put my life in the hands of a man with no morals of his own to guide him."

"No indeed," I replied. The thought made my stomach turn over, but it righted itself when I saw the innkeeper's wife approaching with two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. I was too used to not knowing how long it would be until my next meal to give this one up over a vague, potential threat.

Holmes only munched at a small bit of toast, watching thoughtfully out the window. When it became apparent that he had no interest in the eggs or bacon, I scooped them onto my plate.

After a time, Holmes spoke.

"Do not look now, Watson, but I believe we have an uninvited guest."

A moment later, the door of the inn swung open with force and a commanding voice boomed, "Where are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

Holmes sprang to his feet. Dropping the last forkful of egg back onto my plate, I scrambled to do the same.

"We are here," said Holmes coolly, "But it seems you have the advantage of us."

The dining room was silent, all eyes on Holmes, me, and the man striding toward us. I keenly felt the absence of my service revolver, which lay on top of the yet-unpacked suitcase in my room. I made up my mind that this would be the last time I would be caught without a weapon handy.

The man who sought us approached our table. He had a youthful, doughy face set with piercing blue eyes which held a certain mastery in them. Despite his age, it seemed this man was accustomed to being heard and obeyed.

"Marshall Reagan," said the man, "and I—"

"Have come to tell us not to meddle in affairs which are not our concern?" Holmes supplied.

"Well, yes," said Reagan, his confident demeanour somewhat diminished.

Holmes frowned. "Why should you, a police detective on your first case, hailing from several hours away with no intentions of staying long, be the one to deliver this message, when it is Sheriff Sweet who has jurisdiction in this county?"

"How—how do you—" the young Marshall spluttered.

"I have my methods," said Holmes curtly. "Now answer the question."

"Sheriff Sweet is looking into some slight disturbance at the Blomberg home."

"What sort of disturbance?" asked Holmes sharply.

I gripped the handle of my doctor's bag tightly, hoping no one was injured.

"That is none of your—" began Reagan.

"It became my concern the moment I agreed to investigate the burglary of her jewellery," Holmes replied, grey eyes hard as steel as he stared down the much shorter man. He turned to me. "Come, Watson, we are off to the Blombergs. Marshall Reagan is welcome to accompany us if he so chooses."

The poor young man protested for a moment, then thought better of it. "Come with me, then," he growled. "If you are going either way, I should at least like to keep an eye on you two." The Marshall turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.

"Very well," Holmes replied, casting a glance in my direction. There was an amused twinkle in his eye, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing aloud. This young Marshall Reagan now knew that one cannot easily outdo Holmes in wit or ego. I still wished I had my revolver, but it seemed Reagan was unlikely to resort to a Wild West shootout, at least not at the moment.

I wished for my revolver again a minute later; I glanced behind the carriage and saw a lean figure watching our progress from behind a nearby building.


	7. Stolen Starch

_**Chapter Seven**_

 **Stolen Starch**

A couple of minutes later found us on the front lawn of the Blomberg home, the livid old Sheriff stepping out of the house and stalking toward us.

"Reagan!" he growled.

The young man nearly jumped out of his skin.

"I told you to warn these two off, not to bring them here!"

Holmes strode up to the Sheriff and stood toe to toe with the man. "That was my doing, not his," he said coolly. "Though I should like to know the nature of the crime committed."

The growing red in the Sheriff's face contrasted with his white moustache and hat. "This is _not_ your—"

"Mr. Holmes!" cried a female voice, and the Sheriff fell silent. It was the fair Clara Blomberg, standing in the doorway. "Thank you so much, Sheriff, for fetching Mr. Holmes to help with this." Her smile was charming and kind, but something in her eyes made me think she knew that was not at all what happened.

"Yes, well, I—" began the Sheriff, running a finger under his collar.

"If you gentlemen would follow me," said Mrs. Blomberg, waving us inside. She led us down a hall to the narrow servant's stairs. Holmes and I had not yet seen this part of the house. We followed the lady down the stairs and into the kitchen. The girl who let us in yesterday sat huddled in a chair, looking near hysterical.

The others followed Mrs. Blomberg into the next room, which appeared to serve as a storage and laundry room. As no one else seemed eager to soothe the poor girl—Amy, I recalled her name now—I remained in the kitchen and searched for a bottle of brandy and glass to give the poor girl. I rummaged through the cupboards and managed to find what I sought.

"Thank you," said Amy in a shaky voice. "I—a man broke in, I think. I already told the Sheriff, but—but—" She hung her head.

I placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Then do not feel obligated to tell me if you do not wish to," I said.

She looked up and gave me a lopsided smile. "Thanks."

I stayed with her a few more minutes to ensure she would be all right, then excused myself to the next room, where the investigation was well under way. Holmes later informed me of what he discovered.

The house had been entered via the window in the storage room, which faces thick prairie grasses, bordered on the other side by a farm owned by one William Kelly; only the immediate neighbours might have seen the intruder come or go, and none of them had. I noted that we descended a set of stairs to reach this room, but I have not yet had occasion to mention that the Blomberg residence was built into a hill such that the ground level in the front was half a story higher than ground level in the back. As such, it would not have been difficult to climb into the window, as it was at ground level outside and three feet above the floor inside. It showed clear signs of having been forced open. The disarray in the room indicated that the intruder thought he might find something among the clothes. As strange as this was, stranger still was that the only thing taken, as far as Amy or Mrs. Blomberg could tell, was a sack of potatoes Amy had moved from the cellar to the kitchen to begin preparing for lunch, which Mrs. Blomberg preferred to take around eleven. After setting the bag of potatoes upon the counter, Amy had felt the need to use the outhouse. When she returned, the room was as I described, and the girl caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing into the tall grass.

Holmes had already determined all of this when I entered the room, but I did not learn it until later, as at this moment, the door leading to the servants' stairs burst open violently, revealing an imposing man with a strong jaw, firmly set, and lips in a thin, white line. His eyes burned as they bore into all of us in turn, only softening when they fell upon his wife.

"Darling, are you all right?" he asked, clearing the space between them in three steps and taking her hands in his. He stared down at his wife with concern, and I noted that while he was a striking man, his voice had a surprisingly nasal quality.

"Yes, I'm just fine, James," she replied.

The husband's tense shoulders relaxed visibly, and he turned his attention to Holmes and me. "I apologise for postponing introductions," he said. "I was worried Clara may have come to harm."

I spoke before Holmes could. "A perfectly understandable concern," I said with a smile. "I am Dr. Watson."

Blomberg looked slightly confused.

"I'm here with Sherlock Holmes, to find your wife's stolen jewellery and their thief," I supplied.

His face cleared, and he shook my hand kindly. "James Blomberg."

"Sherlock Holmes," my friend supplied.

Blomberg turned his attention to Holmes, an excitement in his eyes. "So you are the famous London detective!" He shook Holmes' hand warmly, though Holmes did not seem entirely willing.

I glanced to the Sheriff and Marshall, hoping to gauge their reactions. Both stood completely impassive, arms crossed in a similar manner. Whoever believes we English are more stoic than our American cousins has never met Sheriff Sweet or Marshall Reagan, or he should soon be enlightened.

Mr. Blomberg smiled at Holmes. "If you and your associate are available this evening, I would be honoured to have you over for dinner. You can tell me all about what you've figured out so far and try some of Amy's spectacular mashed potatoes."

 _Don_ _'t turn him down_ , I thought. A guaranteed meal was the best kind.

To my surprise and relief, Holmes agreed, and the appointed hour was six.

After a couple clarifying questions put to Amy, whose responses seemed to disappoint Holmes, if only imperceptibly, we departed.

* * *

We were on foot again as it did not appear Marshall Reagan was feeling hospitable enough to give us a ride back to the inn. I wished he had; a chill wind was picking up bits of snow and ice and hurling it into our faces. I felt like I'd been stabbed with a hundred needlepoints by the time we reached the inn (a ten-minute walk, though it felt like an eternity).

"What steps do you propose we take next?" I asked breathlessly once we were inside.

"I should like to run a few chemical tests on that fabric and test the whiskey for poison," Holmes replied as we walked (and dripped) our way down the hall, "but we also need more information about the Hiemans, the Blombergs, and our shadow, Silas Albright."

"Speaking of him," I said, following Holmes into his room before he could shut the door, "did you see him on our way back? I did not."

"Nor did I," said Holmes, removing his overcoat.

"I wonder why," I mused.

"It is likely those for whom he works knew where and when we would be if a crime was committed." Holmes tossed his hat onto a nearby chair.

"You believe this break-in to be connected to the robbery?" I asked, hanging my coat and hat on the stand and stepping closer to the fireplace.

"I shall be surprised if it is not," said he. "However, it makes little sense to me; it is rather like locking the gate after the horses have escaped, to steal evidence after an investigation."

"Indeed," I muttered, bringing my hands closer to the dying embers in the fireplace.

Holmes removed the envelope from his pocket, set it on the little desk, and proceeded to rummage in one of his large suitcases for whatever equipment he sought.

I dragged over a chair from the other end of the room and sat nearby as Holmes mixed and measured substances the innkeeper would likely not be too keen on finding in one of his rooms.

After a time, Holmes spoke. "Now, Watson, perhaps you can be of some little use in my investigation."

I sat up straighter, but Holmes was silent.

"It is nearly lunchtime," he said suddenly.

"So it is," I replied. A glance at my watch told me it was half-past eleven. "But I don't see how that's relevant to my being of assistance in your investigation."

Holmes waved a hand. "Never mind; there is time enough for me to do it myself."

"No need," I replied. "I'm here to help, as I always am. Just say the word."

Holmes frowned. "It may prove to be important."

"You can trust me with the task, whatever it is," I said.

Holmes was silent again.

I was silent as well, hoping, that if I did not interrupt, Holmes' thoughts would lead him to letting me actually _do_ something for the case, instead of only taking notes.

Holmes sighed. "Go find me some country gossip. You are friendly and gregarious enough I believe folk will be glad to share."

"Thanks…I think." I rose from my seat.

"A hypothesis, not a compliment," Holmes added with a hint of exasperation.

"I take what I can get from you," I replied. "But with whom should I speak? Some group of local housewives?"

"Oh, no, old fellow," said Holmes with a shake of the head. "There is only one group of people from whom you can learn much more than you ever wanted to know about every member of a small community, even more than you could from gossiping women."

"And who would that be?" I asked.

"Grey-haired farmers," Holmes replied with a quirking half-smile. "Good luck."

In the time it took to blink, I was on the other side of the door wondering what on earth I was getting into.


	8. Local Gossip

_**Chapter Eight**_

 **Local Gossip**

"Where might I find some company for lunch?" I asked the innkeeper. "Farmers, especially."

The innkeeper quirked an eyebrow. "Here or at the tavern. If it's pleasant company you're after, you'll do best staying here."

I am certain he had a strong bias with this opinion, but I eagerly accepted the opportunity to avoid venturing back into the cold.

"That table there." The innkeeper pointed to a table for six where three men already sat with steaming mugs of coffee before them. "They're nice enough folk."

I thanked the innkeeper and made to join them.

"Excuse me," I said, "would you mind if I sat here?" I motioned to an empty chair.

A man in a threadbare hat shrugged.

Another eyed me suspiciously over wire-rimmed spectacles.

The third, younger than the others, spoke. "Go right ahead, son," said he. He introduced himself and his associates, though the only name I could recall later with certainty was Johanson, the man in glasses.

Johanson continued to stare at me, and I was glad I was half his age and probably twice his strength. "So what's your name?"

"I am Dr. Watson," I replied. "How do you do?"

"Not as well as I should like," replied the one in the hat. "You're a doctor?"

I nodded.

He proceeded to enumerate all of his aches and pains, which I did my best to categorize and advise upon, but I think he spoke more to complain than to seek medical knowledge.

Soon two more men arrived, and the table was full. Both were older than the man who had spoken first and looked on me with less suspicion than Johanson.

The girl waiting tables returned, and soon we all had steaming coffees and hot lunches before us. The conversation was in full swing when Johanson interrupted.

"You're the man with that detective, aren't you?" He narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, I did come here with Sherlock Holmes."

"You're a detective as well as a doctor?" asked one of the other men, incredulous.

"Well, only in a small way," I replied. "I am a doctor foremost, but I take notes for Holmes during his cases and sometimes act as a sounding board for his theories."

Johanson sneered. "Are you investigating now? Spying on us?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "No, I am having lunch."

The others chuckled at Johanson's expense.

"Lay off the Doc," said the man in the threadbare hat. "He likely wants a little peace, after the goings on this morning."

"What goings on?" asked another.

"The break-in at the Blombergs," the first replied.

"Gracious!" cried the youngest man. "Will the scoundrels ever stop?"

I broke in. "They certainly will, if Sherlock Holmes has anything to do with it."

One of the new arrivals frowned. "I heard you and he were at the Blombergs' this morning."

"Really?" said the youngest. "What happened? Or can you tell us?"

I saw no harm in sharing what little I knew as they were sure to learn it eventually. Having enlightened them, and by so doing, entered their good graces, they proceeded to discuss in turn a good many rumours and theories about the Blomberg jewel theft, this latest break-in, and numerous other subjects.

Those things of note I learned were as follows: Mr. Blomberg was the sole owner of the local bank for the past ten years, before which Wall Lake had no bank. Mrs. Blomberg and her brother, Albert Harrison, had been on good terms for all of their adult lives. Mrs. Blomberg and Mr. Harrison had a tendency toward carelessness with money, while Mr. Blomberg was careful to the point of near miserliness.

Several theories were tossed about regarding the jewel theft: It was an outside job. The brother had given the burglar information. Mrs. Blomberg faked it to earn the town's sympathy. Hugh had stolen the jewels with intentions of giving them to his ex-fiancée. It was a cover-up for some greater scandal. And so on. Each of my companions took turns poking holes in one another's theories before the conversation turned to planting in the spring.

After learning more than I ever desired to know about corn, I managed to nudge the discussion toward the death of Hugh Hieman. Unfortunately, the foregone conclusion was that he drank himself into an early grave, "poor lad," because of that "devil of a girl" Lena Hallstrom. There was little to be gained on this topic.

I learned a good deal, however, about the Albrights, with minimal prodding. The older brother, John, was a priest—Mass was held at eight sharp every Sunday, all were welcome—and the younger, Silas, a bit of a scoundrel. He was popular with the ladies, especially when he was younger. There were rumours of the worst sort circulating about him, but then some fond story of his kindness would be told, leading me to wonder how much was unfounded speculation and how much was fact.

Throughout the conversation, I'd been asked various questions about my own history, and soon found myself exchanging war stories with the three men who had fought in the American civil war and recounting a couple of the more interesting of my adventures with Holmes.

By the end of the meal, I seemed to have made fast friends with them all—even Johanson seemed to have warmed to me a little—and I found myself cordially invited to the Catholic church, Presbyterian church, and the local tavern. I politely replied I would consider the offers and bid them good day.

* * *

I returned to our quarters and knocked at Holmes' door. There was no reply, but I opened it anyway. A wave of tobacco smoke greeted me, but it was not overpowering. I deduced that Holmes must have only just completed the necessary tests before adopting his current position: cross-legged in a chair. I took the other.

"Did you learn much from your chemical analysis?" I asked.

Holmes gave a shrug. "I suspect your time was more interestingly spent. I almost wish I had traded you tasks."

I chuckled. "I suppose you have yet to forget that time my hand slipped, and I burned a hole in Mrs. Hudson's best tablecloth?"

"I did say 'almost'," Holmes replied wryly. "Now, what did you learn?"

I laid out all of my newfound information, much as I did in this narrative, but not, I am afraid to say, quite so neatly as this account. When I had at last completed my rambling and roundabout narrative, Holmes was silent, brow furrowed.

"I wish you could have learned more about the Hieman family before we meet with them this afternoon."

"So do I," I agreed, "but they seemed to believe there was little to say on the matter."

"And about that Silas fellow," Holmes mused.

"Yes, well, I learned some," I said, quelling my irritation.

"As well as Mrs. Blomberg." He inhaled deeply and blew out a puff of smoke.

I sighed and looked away. "It was difficult enough learning what I did!"

"Really," Holmes quirked a wary eyebrow. "It was difficult to get them to talk to you?"

"About those things that are actually relevant, yes! Do you know how difficult it is to shift the subject of conversation without seeming like you're fishing for information?"

"Yes," Holmes replied.

I deflated a little. Of course he did.

"To be fair, you have done worse before," said Holmes.

I sighed. That was as close to "Thank you so much, Watson" or "I'm sorry for being so unreasonable" as I was going to get. "Anyway," I said, "What did you learn?"

"The stain was undoubtedly blood," said Holmes.

"Ah, the Sherlock Holmes Blood Test," I said with a smile, recalling the moment I had first met Holmes, in the midst of perfecting this procedure.

"Indeed," Holmes replied, tapping the side of his pipe. "Though it is not much of a revelation. However, the tie seems to be of a rather expensive make; a curious choice for a burglar."

I frowned. "Yes, it is."

"Most of my tests proved inconclusive, unfortunately," Holmes continued, "and I am too unfamiliar with the soils of this region to glean anything from any dust or mud clinging to it. And as for the whiskey, it seems to be only whiskey. As a result, I've suffered a rather boring early afternoon."

Silence fell for a time as we both lapsed into thought.

I glanced at my watch. There was an hour yet before we were set to meet the Hieman's. "Shall I leave you to smoking and thinking?"

Holmes nodded.


	9. Our Shadow

_**Chapter Nine**_

 **Our Shadow**

I spent the interim time unpacking and organising my things, a necessary, if unexciting, task. A quarter to three came soon enough, and Holmes and I bundled ourselves up and marched through the drifting snow to the home of the late Hugh Hieman, in hopes we would learn something more about his death.

As we departed the inn, I saw Silas Albright watching us from across the street. As soon as I looked directly at him, he slipped behind the building. Even so, it was a bright day, and I discerned his features more clearly now than in previous cases. He was tall and broad and handsome, and I wondered why he was wasting his life in this manner.

Holmes muttered, "Our shadow is not much for spy work."

When we arrived at the Hieman's, the home was quiet. The children were in school and a sign in the window proclaimed that the shoe store would reopen at four. Mrs. Hieman answered the door and led us to the small sitting and dining room upstairs, where we had investigated that morning, and invited us to sit down. I extracted my notebook and pencil from a coat pocket and prepared to write.

When Mrs. Hieman spoke, her voice trembled, but she came straight to her point. "Mr. Holmes, was my son murdered?"

Holmes inclined his head solemnly. "It appears so, madam."

"I know who did it," she said in a hoarse whisper.

I gripped my notebook tighter, and leaned forward.

Holmes' expression was inscrutable. "Who?"

Mrs. Hieman gritted her teeth. "Silas Albright," she spat.

I dropped my pencil and attempted to retrieve it as unobtrusively as possible.

"How do you know?" asked Holmes. His tone was even, but I could sense his excitement.

"I just know," she replied.

I glanced to Holmes. We both knew a woman's instinct was nothing to take lightly, but this seemed more like an attempt to assuage grief by placing blame.

Holmes shook his head. "I am afraid I must ask you to be more clear. Even if you have no direct proof, there must be something that led you to this conclusion."

Mrs. Hieman gave a shaky sigh. "Silas wanted to marry Lena; he never tried to hide it. With Hugh out of his way, he would be free to do so."

"Has he made any such advances yet?" Holmes asked.

"How should I know?" she exclaimed. "But he probably has."

"No offense meant," said Holmes gently. "I am only trying to understand."

"Sorry," said Mrs. Hieman.

"Tell me more about Miss Hallstrom," said Holmes, reclining in his chair and closing his eyes.

Mrs. Hieman glanced to me uncertainly, so I motioned for her to go on.

"Well, Lena's parents met in Wall Lake, and while her father was off working for the Union Pacific, Lena lived with her mother and uncle on a farm south of town. My husband and I lived on the farm adjacent, until he died five years ago and I moved into town. Hugh and Lena grew up together; they were inseparable, even after they graduated eighth grade. Just a year or two after we moved into town, the Hallstrom family came into a large sum of money—you'll get different stories from different people, but some wealthy relative out east died—and they moved into Sac City and built a big fancy house and whatnot.

"Even after we'd moved apart, Hugh insisted on visiting Lena at least a couple times a month. Two years ago, he determined he would marry her, but she had a number of other male friends who would call, now that she was both beautiful and wealthy." Though Mrs. Hieman tried to keep her tone even, she could not quite mask the scorn she felt toward these other "friends" of Lena's. "I thought all along she was going to break his heart, but then six months ago, he proposed and she said 'yes'.

"Hugh was overjoyed, never looked so happy since before his father died." Her dark eyes grew distant for a moment before continuing. "At one time, Silas Albright was one of Lena's male friends, and I don't think he ever gave up on her, even though he was a little too old for her. She never said so, but I daresay she thought it."

"Thank you," said Holmes as soon as Mrs. Hieman paused for breath. He was clearly a little irritated to be receiving far more angry suspicion than fact. "May I ask you a few questions about your son's character and habits?"

"Yes, of course," said she. Her manner shifted from anger into sadness, and she seemed to shrink into her chair. "Ask what you will."

"Was your son predictable in his habits?"

She shrugged. "Usually. He was fairly set into his ways."

"Such as?" Holmes prompted.

"Visiting Lena the same day each week, attending church on time, getting up and going to sleep at the same time," she replied. "Hugh would always honour commitments. And he was kind. Such a big-hearted young man. Always lending a hand where needed and being a friend and mentor to our neighbours in the country, especially the Kelly boys. They'd go down to the river together—"

"Yes, thank you," interrupted Holmes. "Was Hugh careful? With his safety, his finances, etc.?"

"He was careful enough with money, when he needed to be," she replied, "though he loved spending to make others happy. As for his safety, he was never careful enough about that. Just like his father that way," she said.

"In what way?" Holmes asked.

"Well, it's like this. When Hugh was nine, his friend Ernie Anderson got himself stuck in a tree, and Hugh helped him down, even though it would've been easier to ask for help, and he ended up breaking an ankle in an attempt to break Ernie's fall."

"And he retained these traits into adulthood?" asked Holmes.

"Well, he gained some sense, but the tendencies for foolish bravery remained. He worried me sick some days, but a mother couldn't ask for a more upstanding young man to be her son."

"Did he have a large circle of friends?"

"Yes, and no," the mother replied. "Hugh was friendly, and he'd talk at length with anybody, but he kept much to himself. I would say Ernie and Lena were closest to him. Most of his other childhood friends work outside of town and across the country."

"Did he have any enemies?" Holmes asked. "Rivals, whether in business or matters of the heart?"

Mrs. Hieman frowned. "Few. He was too well-liked for much of that nonsense. Not many men as young as he would have been appointed town deputy, especially since Sheriff Sweet has such high standards for his deputies."

"Indeed," Holmes replied, "but I ask that you answer my question with names."

"Silas, for one," said she. "Thankfully, Lena's other 'friends' all seem to have found other young ladies to chase. He had only one rival for becoming deputy: James Johanson.

I interrupted briefly, and against my better judgment. "Is he any relation to a Johanson who frequents the inn at lunchtime? Thin, older man," I continued, "farmer, wears glasses…"

Recognition dawned on Mrs. Hieman's face and she nodded. "Oh, that'd be James' father. Probably a good man at heart, though he is not someone I'd care to take tea with. But James takes after his mother. And anyway, he never actually put his name forward to the Sheriff about it, though he said he meant to."

"Has he now, that the position is once again unfilled?"

Mrs. Hieman shrugged. "I have not heard, but I will be surprised if he does not. And he would be a good man for the job, but I cannot help but wonder…" She trailed off, but I grasped her meaning well by the shadow that seemed to pass over her face, deepening premature wrinkles and dimming eyes that had already seen too much.

Holmes spoke firmly. "Whoever is responsible for your son's death, I shall find him out and he will be brought to justice."

Mrs. Hieman gave a curt nod. "Thank you. I'm so glad Ernie thought to write you. Sheriff Sweet is a good man and a good sheriff, but between you and me, he's not quite so young as he once was, and he's never had to figure out something like this before. And as for that expert Des Moines sent, I'm not so sure this isn't his first assignment. He looks like he's fifteen and he's all shaky…" She shook her head. "All that's to say, thank you for coming to help."

"And thank you for allowing us access to your knowledge and your home." Holmes stood. I followed his lead and Mrs. Hieman ushered us down the stairs and to the door.

"Good day to you, madam," said Holmes, more kindness in his voice than was his wont.

"Good day," she replied, mouth set in a sad smile, and we departed.


	10. Silas Albright

_**Chapter Ten**_

 **Silas Albright**

Our interview with Mrs. Hieman was brief enough we would not be expected at the Blomberg's for another hour. I pointed this out to Holmes as we slogged through the snowy street.

"Let us call upon Father John Albright and see what we can learn about his brother Silas."

After returning to the inn and seeking directions from the innkeeper, we made our way toward St. Joseph's Church and the priest's little home next door. Upon arriving, Holmes knocked at the door and it was opened some seconds later by the man himself. Fr. Albright was a corpulent man with twinkling eyes and red hair streaked with grey. He gave the overall impression of a middle-aged Father Christmas who woke up one morning, shaved his beard and donned a priest's collar.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. What may I do for you?" he asked.

"I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor Watson," Holmes replied. "I have a couple of questions about your brother, Silas, in connection with the Hiemans and the Blombergs."

The priest looked surprised for a moment but invited us in readily enough. Soon we were seated in a tiny but comfortable sitting room with a blazing hearth.

Holmes leaned back in his chair. "Please answer all questions as completely and honestly as you are able."

Fr. Albright nodded.

"Describe your relationship with your brother. Do you see him often?"

Albright shrugged. "Wall Lake is a small town; I see nearly everyone often. But Silas does not seek me out."

"Do you know of any relations between Silas and a woman?" Holmes asked.

"He went with Lena Hallstrom a couple years ago, and more recently with Alice Harrison, Clara Blomberg's youngest sister."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "That is of interest."

"I have no idea if they are still seeing one another or not; I've heard rumours both ways."

"I see. Do you have any other siblings?"

"We did, but no longer. Our sister died a child and my father and three of my brothers all served the United States in that horrible bloodbath twenty years ago, and none of them survived their injuries."

I felt a sympathetic pang, thinking of my time in the Afghan War and the needless pain and death.

"I was in seminary when the war began," Fr. Albright continued, "and completed my training in '62, then returned to my mother and Silas—who was only a lad of eleven, then."

A mental calculation told me Silas was five and thirty now.

"What do you know about the state of your brother's finances?"

"As much as my neighbours, I expect. Rumour and speculation."

"Tell me what you have heard and would believe," Holmes pressed.

"I will readily believe that he does not have what he should for money, but some of that may be that Lawler is borrowing some for his inventions."

"Lawler?" asked Holmes.

"Silas works with Patrick Lawler in Wall Lake's woodworking and cabinet shop," the priest explained. They do fine work. Some folks from Fletcher, Carnarvon, and even Sac City buy there instead of locally. They do everything from cabinets to benches and chairs to tables and coffins. There's always work for them. But Lawler is dead set on building these _machines_." Fr. Albright frowned and shook his head. "That's all he does, when he's not at work, church, or in the tavern."

"I see," said Holmes. "Do you believe your brother would be willing to spy on others for money?"

"Undoubtedly," Fr. Albright replied with a wry smile. "He's been doing that for free for years."

"That is all I have to ask you." Holmes stood.

"Well," said the priest as he and I followed suit, "if there's anything else, don't hesitate to drop by. You are always welcome here."

"Thank you," Holmes replied.

* * *

It was time to head for the Blombergs. The air was still, though cold, so I did not mind the long walk. We were perhaps halfway there when Holmes gently nudged me and nodded to his left. I looked in that direction and there was Silas Albright, watching us from between two houses.

"This is getting old," I whispered. "Shall we confront him?"

"We have proof of nothing, yet," Holmes replied. "We must wait, for now."

I nodded and spent the remainder of our journey uncomfortably aware of that feeling someone was watching, because I knew it was not my imagination.

Amy, the maid, greeted us at the Blomberg's door, and we were ushered in and led to the table. Mr. and Mrs. Blomberg entered a moment later.

Having exchanged the greetings politeness dictates, we seated ourselves.

"Have you learned anything helpful yet?" asked the husband eagerly.

"Some," Holmes replied. "I am endeavouring to learn more as we speak."

"Of course!" said Mr. Blomberg. "Ask what you will; I am an open book."

Holmes reclined in his chair. "You are a banker, correct?"

"Yes."

"How are your own finances?"

"Fairly good," he replied stiffly.

Mrs. Blomberg looked uncomfortable.

"Are you acquainted with Silas Albright," Holmes asked.

"Yes, we are," the husband replied slowly as the girl brought out our food: roasted pork and mashed potatoes. "I know him on sight, and have spoken to him before, but I have no particular reason to do so most of the time, and I would not consider him a friend."

Holmes turned to Mrs. Blomberg. "Would you?"

Her lovely face contorted with disgust. "No."

"What of your sisters?"

Something flashed in the lady's eyes for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. "Don't be ridiculous; they all have more self-respect than that."

I did not believe her, but Holmes did not press the issue.

"Your brother, then?"

"I highly doubt it," replied Mrs. Blomberg with a chuckle. "Albert has little patience for men with more ego than character. And he has not lived here for so long now that I doubt he considers anyone here an overly close friend."

"How busy does your brother keep?" Holmes asked.

"Fairly so," she replied. "It depends on where he is employed."

"Would he be able to pay another visit here by next week?"

She frowned. "I imagine it would be inconvenient, but not impossible."

"Then request that he do so." Holmes' tone brooked no argument.

"There is no way he could be involved in a plot," she protested.

"He may possess some information without realising it," said Holmes. I noted the diplomacy of this response and its swift effectiveness.

"Oh," Mrs. Blomberg said. "That is not inconceivable, I suppose. I will send a message to him tomorrow."

Holmes spoke little for the rest of the meal, despite Mr. Blomberg's blatant attempts to glean information from him. The food was excellent, and even Holmes ate his fill. I suspect he did so more as an excuse for his silence than a desire to eat, but the result was the same. His reticence left me to carry on the bulk of the conversing, which I did not mind. There was only a slight undercurrent of tension, the source of which was revealed near the end of the meal.

I spoke with the Blombergs of a variety of things, but while the conversation often danced around the topic of poor Hugh's strange death, I volunteered no information. I glanced several times to Holmes, but he continued to stare out of the window, lost in his thoughts.

"Mr. Holmes." Mr. Blomberg addressed my friend with firm directness.

Holmes snapped to attention.

"Is it true that you are also investigating the death of Hugh Hieman?"

"It is," Holmes replied.

"In whose interest?"

"I am acting for Ernest Anderson."

Mr. Blomberg's eyes narrowed. "I see."

"This concerns you." Holmes' brow furrowed. "Why?"

Mrs. Blomberg spoke up before her husband could reply. "He only wants to ensure your full attention is on our case," she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

"I assure you," Holmes replied coolly, "I have worked on as many as four cases simultaneously and brought them all to successful conclusions."

"But cases as inscrutable as this?" The husband pressed.

"Some more so," Holmes replied, rising from the table. "Come, Watson, I believe it is time we cease to impose upon the Blombergs' hospitality."

I thanked our hosts for supper and bid them a kind farewell before hurrying after Holmes to the door and into the winter night.

"Watson! Observe!" said Holmes, drawing my attention to a particular rock in the Blomberg's drive, then whispered, "Silas Albright is following us yet again, but this time he appears to be armed."

"Firearm?" I whispered.

Holmes gave a curt nod, and I was glad I had mine.

We rose to our full heights. Sure enough, Albright stood at the corner of the house.

"Ignore him for now," Holmes breathed, "but keep your revolver handy."

I was on the point of making some reply when the Blomberg's door flew open behind us and I heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked. Mr. Blomberg stood framed in the light of the doorway, gun in hand, and shouted toward our hidden observer. "You there! Albright! Get your sorry ass over here and tell me what you're doing on my property."

Albright muttered something rude under his breath and ambled toward the house. Holmes and I stood, watching.

"Hurry up, it's too cold for this nonsense," Blomberg growled.

Albright stepped quickly to the house, his puffs of breath illuminated by the lights inside the home.

"Well?" Blomberg closed the door behind him and crossed his arms.

"I was curious," Albright replied coolly. "It's not every day a famous detective comes to town."

"In whose interests were you curious?" Blomberg pressed.

Albright narrowed his eyes defiantly. "Nobody but me told me to see what was happening here."

"Sure, sure," Blomberg scoffed. "Get off my property."

Silas Albright straightened to his full height, staring down James Blomberg with such open fury I was amazed the latter could stand it. "I know what this is about," Albright seethed, and with that, the handsome man turned on his heel and stalked into the night.

Mr. Blomberg turned to us. "Sorry about that, gentlemen. I didn't want a lout like him squatting on my land."

"Of course not," Holmes replied, outwardly cool, but I could see in his eyes as we left that he was troubled.

The night was cold, but not windy. Even so, we walked quickly back to the inn.

Holmes did not speak until we arrived. "I don't like it, Watson." He stood with his hand on the handle of his door and spoke in a low voice.

I was silent, waiting for him to continue.

"I fear Mr. Blomberg's reproach may have an adverse impact upon our proceedings."

"How so?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head. "I do not know. My instincts tell me so."

We both had learned to trust Holmes' instincts over the years—they were as good as that of any woman I had ever met—and even I had a bad feeling about what was transpiring around us.

Holmes turned the handle of his door and opened it. "I suspect there will be some new development by morning." With that, he disappeared into his room.

Sherlock Holmes was correct, but neither of us foresaw what shape the development would take.


	11. Another Death in Wall Lake

_**Chapter Eleven**_

 **Another Death in Wall Lake**

I was awakened the next morning with a firm shake of my shoulders. I snapped awake, prepared to defend against a threat, and saw Holmes standing over me. "I received word from Dr. Mauer that Silas Albright is dead."

"Dead?" I repeated. A sudden image of Mr. Blomberg, a silhouette framed by the light of his doorway, pointing his shotgun at Albright flashed into my mind.

"Quite so," Holmes replied. "Now come, Watson, we must move quickly, before Sheriff Sweet and Marshall Reagan trample the scene like a herd of buffalo."

With a groan, I hauled myself out of bed.

"Hurry, Watson, this may be our first substantial lead in either case."

I growled a rude reply which Holmes did not hear; he was already out of my room.

I dressed in a flurry of seconds and found myself ten minutes later in the back of a wagon driven by Dr. Mauer, blinking away sleep and torn between anticipation, dread, and regret that I would be forgoing breakfast.

Our destination was the Boyer River, nearly two miles west of town. The area was heavily wooded and the river, narrow in this region, was largely frozen over. Sheriff Sweet, Marshall Reagan, and Fr. Albright were already there.

Sweet was the first to approach us. "Thought you'd like to see this, Holmes, and that I might as well get your invasion out of the way, as you're sure to find out about this sooner or later."

"A wise decision," Holmes replied. "Where is the unfortunate Mr. Albright?"

Sweet led us into the grove of trees nearest us, and against a large oak lay the handsome scoundrel we had seen the night before, lying dead in the snow, the massive trunk and snowy ground flecked with frozen blood and gore. A gun was in his hand and his face was nearly unrecognisable. It was a gruesome sight.

Marshall Reagan spoke in an unsteady voice. "I—I think this note rather speaks for itself. The Sheriff found it in the dead man's pocket." He held a folded paper in his hand and did not look at the body in the snow.

"Which pocket?" Holmes asked.

"Lower coat pocket, our right and his left."

Holmes held out a thickly gloved hand and Reagan set the note in his palm. He unfolded it and began to read, brow furrowing as his eyes scanned down the page. When he was through, he handed it to me. "Cheap ink, cheaper paper, written under emotional stress while he was still indoors."

I nodded and read the missive.

 _To whom it may concern,_

 _I_ _'m not proud of who I am or what I've done. I wish I could start over, but I'd only make the same mistakes again. I'm a disgrace to my family and my town, and the woman I love will not have me. I don't want to be a burden to anyone any longer._

 _Silas Albright_

When I had finished reading, I looked up to see Holmes was already carefully examining the area around the body. I made eye contact with Dr. Mauer. "May I?"

"A second opinion never hurts," he replied.

I knelt to the ground and examined the unfortunate man.

"He's been dead some hours now," I said. Between the cold air and rigor mortis, Albright was the definition of stone cold. "Bullet shattered the temporal bone above the left ear. Death was instantaneous."

Holmes nodded, lifting up Albright's right arm and examining the elbow with his magnifying glass. I glanced to Dr. Mauer, who nodded as well.

A thought struck me, and I stepped toward Marshall Reagan, who was some distance away, speaking quietly with the Sheriff. They stopped immediately when I approached.

"Was there anything else in the dead man's pockets?" I asked.

"Only the usual," Marshall Reagan replied.

Holmes was suddenly at my side. "Still, I should like to see whatever you found.

Thankfully, they acquiesced without further pressing. There was a watch, a mostly empty cigarette case, and a few odd coins. Holmes examined each object, then extended his hand with the watch in it. "What do you make of that, Watson?"

I picked up the watch, feeling like an understudy thrust onto the stage without time to memorize my lines. I vaguely recalled the details of Holmes' observations of my late brother's watch, and looked for similar characteristics. This watch also had scratches around the hole, but nowhere else. I opened up the case. No markings were inside either.

"Well, I suppose he drinks," I began hesitantly, pointing out the scratches. "But there aren't any other scratches or dents, so he didn't keep it in a pocket with other hard objects."

Holmes motioned for me to continue.

"The owner was a reasonably careful person, since he was careful with his watch and apparently never had to pawn it, but he also drinks heavily enough to cause all these scratches."

"Good, Watson," said Holmes. "You are improving."

I felt my heart swell with pride.

"However, you missed all indications relevant to his demise."

I heaved a sigh, rather louder than I meant to and saw Fr. Albright and Marshall Reagan looking on with interest. The Sheriff and Dr. Mauer were moving Silas's body.

"Allow me to look at that watch for a moment," said Reagan. Holmes handed it to him and he scrutinized it closely.

"It's been taken apart," he noted. I looked over his shoulder and he pointed to four tiny dents just visible along the edge of the case.

"Strange," I intoned.

"Indeed," Holmes agreed. "Do you see anything else of note, Marshall?"

Reagan frowned and turned the article over in his hands. "It's a fine watch. Rather too fine, perhaps? Could he have inherited it?"

We looked to Fr. Albright.

"Was this your father's watch?" Holmes asked, taking it from Reagan and holding it toward the priest.

"No," Albright replied. "His was destroyed in the war. I've never looked too closely at Silas's watch—I don't know anything about it.

"Did your brother drink?" Holmes asked.

"Very little," Fr. Albright replied. "Whatever his other faults, drunkenness was not one of them."

Understanding dawned on me, but Reagan spoke before I could.

"Then this is likely not his watch at all!" he exclaimed. "Or, at any rate, he hasn't had it long, and somebody who did drink sold or gave it to him."

Fr. Albright quietly excused himself, departing for his home. I felt a pang of sadness watching him leave. He was a man who had just lost the last of his family.

A man I did not recognise approached us. "Are you gentlemen talking about Silas's watch? I'm Pat Lawler, by the way, his business partner." He extended a hand, and Holmes and I shook it and introduced ourselves in turn. "He only got that watch a week or so ago. I don't normally take note of that sort of thing, but he offered to sell me his old one for parts and I turned him down until he showed me he had another timepiece. I took him up on it then; one can never have too many gears."

"That is of interest," said Holmes, glancing over the watch again before handing it to Regan to keep with the other evidence. He looked curiously at Lawler for a moment. "But what brings you so far out of town this morning?"

Lawler frowned. "I was Silas's closest friend, and since Dr. Mauer and I live and work next door, he knocked on my door this morning to let me know. I came as soon as I could."

"The footprints!" said Holmes suddenly. "May I borrow one of the dead man's boots?"

With a grimace, Marshall Reagan dashed through the snow toward the retreating wagon Dr. Mauer drove, with Albright's body inside. Reagan stopped the wagon, retrieved a boot, and dashed back, panting. Dr. Mauer followed at a moderate walk.

Reagan handed the boot to Holmes, and we all looked on curiously as he compared the boots with some prints in the snow.

"Strange," said Holmes, rising to his feet and handing the boot to Dr. Mauer.

"What's strange?" asked Reagan, speaking for myself and Lawler; the Sheriff appeared disinterested.

"The prints were made to make it look as though there was only ever one set, when in fact there were three."

Reagan's eyebrow's shot into his hairline, no doubt a mirror of my own expression. Lawler and Dr. Mauer appeared similarly baffled. The Sheriff was nonplussed.

"One for Silas, one for the murderer's approach, and one for his departure."

Sheriff Sweet spoke, tone rife with skepticism. "A murderer followed closely in Albright's tracks without Silas hearing him, shot him, put the gun in his hand, and walked away backwards?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, it is more likely Albright knew he was being followed—that is why the note was written indoors—and rather than suggesting our killer walked backwards, I postulate that he leaned against the tree and reversed his boots before leaving. Observe the difference in pressure between those footprints and ours."

"By Jove," Marshall Reagan breathed. "You're brilliant, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes quirked a smile at the young man, but Sheriff Sweet was unimpressed. "Son, are you trying to tell me that this is all some elaborate set up and Albright didn't do himself in?"

"Yes," said Holmes simply.

The Sheriff crossed his arms and fixed my friend with a steely gaze. "You can spin mad stories till the cows come home, but there's one set of footprints, a note, and a gun in his hand. Maybe that's not as interesting as the sort of thing you investigate, Mr. London Detective, but it's what happened here."

"I would agree with you," said Holmes with a smile, "but then we would both be wrong."

The Sheriff's face reddened with anger, and he seemed to expand as he stood higher and squared his shoulders, becoming an imposing figure. He opened his mouth, closed it, and seemed to shrink again. "Well, you're welcome to believe any crackpot ideas you want—and that goes for you too, Reagan—but I need proof, real proof before I'll buy into anything other than the logical explanation at hand."

Holmes shrugged. "You work your way, and I shall work mine. Perhaps we will come to the same conclusions in the end. Good day, Sheriff."


	12. The Inventor

_**Chapter Twelve**_

 **The Inventor**

"You work your way, and I shall work mine. Perhaps we will come to the same conclusions in the end. Good day, Sheriff." With that parting shot, Holmes turned his back to Sheriff Sweet and looked to Lawler. "When today might we meet somewhere warmer so I may put a few questions to you?"

Lawler considered for a moment, then replied, "Why don't you come back to my shop with me now? It's always slower in the morning anyway."

We rode back into town with Lawler. His shop was a neat little place on the main level of a building nearly identical to the Hieman's store, and I supposed he likely lived in the upper story as well. Lawler led us through the front of the store and into the back room. The contrast was astounding; where the shop was tidy and clean and everything organised in logical ways, the shelves, chairs, and floor of the back room were coated in wood shavings, dirt, paper, odd pieces of wood and metal, and a number of half-finished objects, some of which I could identify and others I could not. As Lawler cleared the mess off three chairs and dragged them nearer together, I noticed a large object in the corner with a coffee-stained sheet thrown carelessly over it.

"Oh, that?" said Lawler with a chuckle, noticing Holmes and my curiosity as we seated ourselves. "Just a hobby of mine. I'm trying to speed up the process of picking corn. It takes so damn long. I always hated it as a kid, and one day it hit me: I could build a machine to do it faster. Of course, everybody around here thinks it's an insane idea—some of them even say I'm insane—but I keep working on it." He shrugged. "The way I see it, I could be wasting my time on worse things."

"Indeed," Holmes replied. "Perhaps you could show us this contraption sometime, but now we have more pressing matters."

"Of course," Lawler replied. "Fire away, and I'll do my utmost not to be too much of a windbag."

Holmes reclined in the small wooden chair the same way he would in his armchair back at Baker Street. I readied my notebook and pencil.

"How would you describe the late Silas Albright?" Holmes asked. "In a few words."

Lawler frowned. "Punctual, God-fearing man. Too nosy for his own good, and too careless with the hearts of women. Likes gambling more than his purse allows."

"What do you know about the state of Albright's finances?"

"Well, he and I always do pretty well here—don't know anybody who can sand and varnish as quickly or as well as he could—but he always seemed to be low on cash. Not that I make that sort of thing my business, but one notices these things."

"Of course," said Holmes. "You describe Albright as nosy."

"A bit too curious about rumours, other folks private affairs, you know. Nothing harmful, but he wasn't averse to eavesdropping or asking too many questions."

"I see," said Holmes. "How much do you know of his actions last night?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Lawler replied. "He left at his usual time—just before six—and I never saw him afterward."

"Do you recall him mentioning his plans for the evening?"

"Not really." Lawler frowned.

"Anything unusual in his speech, actions, or manner in the last few weeks?"

"Well, he was quite emotional after poor Hugh's death, poor old boy. He never was too fond of him, stealing that lass Lena from him and all, I might even say they were rivals, but once Hugh was gone, I think he felt pretty cut up about the way he'd treated him."

Holmes nodded. "Of course. Is there anything else you would say caused Albright to give an uncharacteristic response?"

"One thing that did seem funny is that he had a late meeting with Marshall Reagan when he came into town. It was odd, because I had no idea how Silas would have any connection with the stolen diamonds, since he was off moping about how Alice Harrison, you know, the youngest of Mrs. Blomberg's sisters, was no longer interested in him when it happened.

"Indeed," Holmes replied, frowning. "For now, I ask only that you keep an eye out for anything suspicious and let me know if you recall something of interest at a later time." He rose, and I followed suit.

"Of course," said Lawler, standing as well and shaking Holmes' and my hands in turn.

"And I should like to know more about that contraption—" Holmes gestured toward the object under the sheet "—if you would be willing to share."

Lawler grinned. "I certainly would! If you ever find yourself free of an evening, I'm here working or at the tavern, and you're welcome to join me either place. Consider it an open invitation."

"Very kind of you," replied Holmes, and after wishing Lawler a good day, we took our leave.

"I didn't know you took an interest in farm machinery," I commented.

Holmes gave a short barking laugh. "I am afraid I do not, but I do have an interest in staying in the good graces of men who are both honest and brilliant."

That made more sense. We began walking down Main Street.

"I do have one question, Holmes," I said tentatively.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Do you think Mr. Blomberg may have something to do with this? Last night, with that shotgun, and—"

Holmes shook his head. "No, I do not think he had any real intentions of killing Albright, as great as his distaste for the man may have been."

We walked in silence for a long moment, then I asked, "What do you think our next course of action should be?"

"We need an autopsy report from Dr. Mauer and to meet with Marshall Reagan about Silas, and to see if he has any information we do not about either of the cases—though, as I understand it, he is only technically here to investigate the burglary."

"Because young Hieman's death was considered an accident?"

Holmes nodded. "Despite this, I imagine he will share information with us more readily than the Sheriff would."

"Quite so," I agreed.

"Then we should also visit the neighbours of both the Blombergs and the Hiemans," Holmes mused. "And I should like to speak to the staff at the train station, and anyone who was on the train with young Hieman his last night."

This was beginning to sound like more than we could do in one day; morning was already passing swiftly, or I would have suggested we begin with late breakfast or early lunch. Time was short and food could wait.

"How do you propose we manage to do all of this?" I asked. "Might we be better off dividing the labour?"

Holmes was silent for a long moment. "I suppose I need not be present to learn the details of Albright's remains; you speak the language of doctors even better than I…"

"I should hope so," I muttered.

Holmes snorted. "Not by as much as you think, old fellow."

I refused to rise to the bait, and instead asked, "Might I also be trusted with speaking to some of the Blombergs' neighbours? There is enough distance between the homes there that it's unlikely they know anything of note, anyway."

"I cannot count on that," Holmes snapped.

"I take good notes," I said.

"Hardly," Holmes replied.

"Then I shall do better this time," I said. I tried to meet my friend's eyes, but he only stared at the snow at our feet, frowning.

We walked for half a block in silence, then Holmes finally spoke.

"The Blomberg home is bordered by a house on the Wall Lake side, a farm to the country side, and another house across the street. I need as much information as possible about Clara Blomberg's siblings, especially her brother and youngest sister, any connections to Hugh Hieman or Silas Albright. All of these events are connected and I must determine how."

I fished my notebook and pencil from my coat and scrawled a few words down so I would not forget my task.

"Pay attention to every detail, Watson. Do not fail me." His tone was serious, and I was certain he was as unhappy with this arrangement as I was eager to prove my usefulness.


	13. The Kelly Family

_**Chapter Thirteen**_

 **The Kelly Family**

The house on the Wall Lake side of the Blombergs proved to be owned by a man and his wife called Larsen, from whom I learned little. They noticed nothing during either theft since they were old and suffered from failing eyesight. This did not stop Mrs. Larsen from talking, however. After twenty minutes, I managed to divert the conversation from irrelevant gossip to her aches, gave a brief opinion on them, was informed she didn't "take much stock in doctors" and made a hasty exit the moment it was politely possible.

I decided to walk to the farmhouse next, largely because it was farther away from the Larsens and gave me time to clear my head. At first, I could see no houses in that direction, but after a short while, I came over a hill and saw a humble wooden house and barn. As I approached, I watched the smoke drift peacefully out of the chimney and dissipate into the sky.

A rustle in the brown cornstalks to my right arrested my attention, and I readied my revolver, heart in my throat. Another movement, a few feet away from where I was looking came next, and I saw a boy scrambling to his feet.

I put my revolver away and squinted at him. He looked familiar.

The boy met my eyes and gave a start. "Hey! Who are you?"

"Dr. Watson," I replied. "What are you doing in there?"

He shrugged, and I motioned for him to join me on the road.

As he approached, I was reminded of the boy Holmes and I had met our first evening in Wall Lake.

"Jack?" I asked. I was reasonably certain that was the name.

The boy laughed. "Jack's my big brother. I'm Will." He held out his small hand, and I shook it.

I glanced at my pocket watch. "Should you not be in school?"

Will grinned sheepishly. "Doesn't mean I want to be there."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I sneaked out a little early. Don't tell my parents," he said with a grimace.

"They are bound to find out, anyway. Do you live there?" I pointed to the house which was my destination.

The boy nodded.

I decided it was not my place to lecture the boy, but I would deliver him to his parents. "Come with me, then," I said and began walking.

He glanced around, as if looking for some escape, and then followed behind, muttering, "Jack said it was a bad idea. Dad's going to be so mad at me."

I sighed as I reached the door. "You did betray their trust by running away from school like that."

"Yeah," he said, kicking a clump of ice.

I gave Will's shoulder an encouraging squeeze and knocked at the door.

"Good morning," said a middle aged woman with a kind face. A split second later she saw her son, and her face fell. "William Joseph Kelly! What are you doing home from school so early?"

The boy tried to shrink behind me, but I placed a firm hand on his back and pushed him gently inside the house.

"Sorry, Mother," he said with a grimace. "I won't do it again."

Mrs. Kelly sighed and motioned for me to come in the house.

"I'm Dr. Watson," I said. "I saw your boy as I was nearing your house and thought it best to deliver him."

"Much appreciated," she said. "You are welcome to warm yourself by the fire before you go."

"I actually have a few questions for you," I said. "I'm here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I have been hearing of his activities in Wall Lake. Terrible deal, what happened to Silas Albright."

Will piped up. "What happened to him?"

Mrs. Kelly scowled. "Go and help your father clean the stalls."

"But it's Jack's turn!" Will whined.

"Not anymore," returned his mother.

"Actually, if it would be convenient, might I speak to both you and your husband at once?"

Mrs. Kelly turned to her son. "Go and fetch your father from the barn and do whatever he tells you to do, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mother," replied Will, and back he went into the cold.

A minute or two later, William Kelly Senior entered the little house. He was a solidly built man, though not tall, and older than his wife; a few grey hairs were sprouting near his temples and in his thick beard. When he spoke, his accent was as Irish as his hair. "So who are yeh?"

I introduced myself and my errand again, and he shook my hand with a firm grip. Mrs. Kelly led me to a few chairs by a fireplace in their little sitting room. I pulled my notebook and pencil from my coat, and the husband and wife looked at me strangely.

"Forgive me; I must take notes so that I can tell Holmes anything I learn in sufficient detail that we need not return and pester anyone with the same questions multiple times."

Kelly gave a curt nod and his wife said nothing, but continued to frown.

"Foremost, I am here because as neighbours to the Blombergs, there is a chance one of you may have seen or heard something the day of either theft, and even if not, you may have noticed something suspicious or out of the ordinary."

I paused, thinking perhaps this alone would be enough to call to their minds something helpful to the investigation.

They both shook their heads.

"We've all gone over it a hundred times," Kelly snapped. "We didn't see or hear anything unusual, suspicious, or otherwise noteworthy. The relatives of the Blombergs who live this direction from town came and went by this road, just as everyone says, and we didn't see or hear anything unusual in behaviour, manner or anything else. Not that any member of the Blomberg family would lower themselves to associating with the likes of us." He sighed. "Sorry. We've run through all of this with the law, our neighbours, and our friends already."

"Anything even inconsequential?" I asked, desperately hoping for some lead, no matter what it was.

Mrs. Kelly frowned, made to speak, then stopped herself.

I met her troubled gaze with what I hoped was a kind yet questioning one, and she shook her head. "It's likely nothing, but I can't help thinking Mrs. Blomberg's brother had something to do with it. He was there when it happened and gone quick as lightning after." She shook her head again. "I probably sound like an old fool."

"No, not at all," I replied. I heard a door open and light footsteps enter, but continued to speak lest I forget what I was about to say. "The brother is already set to return from Chicago so he may be questioned by Holmes."

As suddenly as if my friend's name was some sort of invitation, a small girl and even smaller boy appeared in the doorway, eyes alight.

"Forgive the children," Mrs. Kelly apologised. "Mr. Holmes is the talk of the town, and they've learned his name means interesting conversation."

"That it does," I replied with a chuckle.

"I'm Frank," said the small boy. "Wanna see the rock I found today? It's blue."

The sister elbowed him sharply. "Shh! Leave him alone."

The boy looked downcast. "Hugh liked blue rocks. But now he died. Do you want to see the rocks he gave me, Mister?"

"Perhaps another time," I said.

"I'm Annie," the girl cut in. Likely, she wanted a share in the attention her brother was receiving.

"Good to meet you, Annie," I replied with a smile.

Mrs. Kelly gently shooed the children out of the sitting room, and I made to speak again, but at that moment, the door opened again and Jack Kelly stuck his head into the sitting room.

"Oh! Hello again, Dr. Watson," he said with a grin. "Here about the Blomberg's, I s'pose?"

"Indeed," I replied. I could tell the boy wanted to be privy to the conversation, and as he seemed a good enough lad, I could not help but oblige him. "Do you know anything about the matter?"

He grabbed a chair from the dining table and seated himself next to his parents. "I'm afraid not."

Well, that was the end of that line of inquiry. Now onto the next.

"In addition to the Blomberg thefts, Holmes and I are also looking into the deaths of Hugh Hieman and Silas Albright. Is there anything in regard to those that you believe it may be helpful for us to know?"

"I don't think he did himself in," said Jack.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, unsure if he referred to Hieman or Albright.

"Hugh," said Jack. "He wouldn't have done that, even if his girl did back out of the marriage plans."

I pursed my lips, unsure what to say, and unwilling to meet the boy's eyes, I kept my eyes fixed on my notes.

"I know—knew—Hugh," Jack continued. "He was too optimistic for anything like what they say he did."

Mrs. Kelly broke in. "He has been a friend to the boys for years. They looked up to him when they were small."

"He taught me half of what I know," said Jack. "Fishing, tying knots, swimming, when to go mushroom hunting (and which ones not to eat), how to spot poison ivy…. You get the picture." Jack gave a sad smile. "The point is, Hugh was like an older brother to me, and when I say he would never kill himself, that's God's truth, no question about it."

"Holmes and I agree with you," I said before I could stop myself. Holmes had not told me what information I should and should not disclose, but it was too late now to wonder.

"What's Mr. Holmes found?" asked Jack, leaning forward with interest.

I hesitated for a long moment, but then for better or worse, I decided to trust them. "This information is not to leave this room, but Holmes found a bit of cloth caught on the house, from a green tie, the colour of which matched none of Hieman's clothing, and must have snagged there shortly after his fall."

Kelly frowned. "The lad was killed, then? But how? And moreover, why?"

"Yes, we strongly suspect murder," I said. "As for why, I don't have the faintest idea, but the how is a little more definite. He likely was pushed or even thrown out of an upper-story window by someone skilled at moving unseen and unheard."

Jack spoke. "Like a burglar? Perhaps the same man who stole from the Blombergs?"

"Or an assassin?" asked Mrs. Kelly.

Her husband and son glanced at her in surprise and she coloured a little.

"Perhaps," I conceded. "At this point, it is difficult to say."

We lapsed into silence for a moment, and I saw a shadow pass over Jack's youthful countenance. "Sorry. It's just…talking about it in this way, I—" He dashed away a tear. "Good luck, Dr. Watson. Find the man who killed my friend."

"I promise I will do everything in my power," I replied.

Kelly walked with me to the front door. "If me or mine can be of any help to you and your detective friend, let me know, all right?"

"I shall bear that in mind," I replied, and shook his hand once more. "Thank you." We may need someone able-bodied on our side, I thought as I left. It was difficult to say whether we would have much help from Sheriff Sweet or Marshall Reagan.


	14. Investigation Continued

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

 **Investigation Continued**

I had yet to speak with the neighbours across the street from the Blombergs, so I began my trek back into town, hoping I would find some new information from them. It was just beginning to snow. The home proved to be occupied by a widow who was an aunt to Clara Blomberg. I was eager to learn something helpful from the woman's past, or about her brother, but I found myself soon disappointed. The only matter of interest was that Clara and her sisters were mentioned numerous times by the woman, the brother was mentioned only once and even then, not by name. It also seemed curious that she, who lived literally a stone's throw from Clara Blomberg, would not be present at a small family reunion there. Unsure of how to approach the question, I tried several angles, one of which urged her to the heart of the matter.

"Albert was always so selfish," she said. "I love all my nieces and nephews, but then he fell into that bad lot of friends as a young man, and there was that scandal in Sac City, well, I couldn't stand the sight of him!"

"You have not spoken to him in some time, then?"

"No indeed," said she. "And neither did my husband, God rest his soul."

"What of his relationship with his sisters?" I asked, quietly taking my notebook from my coat and readying my pencil.

"Oh, they think he's reformed and all, but—what's that you're doing, son?" With more speed than I thought possible, she was peering over my shoulder at what I had written.

 _A.H.'s sisters believe reformed;_

"Holmes wishes for me to take notes, no harm intended," I said. "Now, what was it you were saying?"

Satisfied that I was indeed doing what I said, the woman seated herself once more and continued. "They believe Albert's reformed, but I know a bad apple when I see one. He's just like his father. My sister never should've married him!"

It was with difficulty that I managed to excuse myself and bid her good day. She clearly did not have company often enough, but while I pitied her, the afternoon was slipping away rapidly and I had one more task remaining before I could report back to Holmes.

* * *

It was still snowing when I set off again. My next stop was the practice of Dr. Mauer. I had been there just yesterday, but this time I noticed the surrounding businesses. His practice was nestled conveniently yet morbidly next to the undertaker's and Lawler and Albright's woodworking shop.

A middle-aged woman answered the door when I knocked: Mrs. Mauer, and she led me to Dr. Mauer's lower examining room, where he had moments before completed his post-mortem examination of Albright.

"I'm afraid I've little to say," said Dr. Mauer, rinsing the dead man's blood from his hands and drying them on a stained cloth.

He led me back out of the little room and into a cramped waiting room and sat down. I followed suit.

Dr. Mauer continued, "The cause of death was indeed the bullet, though there was some bruising to the arms and chest that I believe to have occurred before death, but not by a large margin."

"Indications of a struggle, I suppose."

"Possibly," Dr. Mauer replied. "The state of the body is my expertise, anything beyond that is your area, not mine."

"Mostly Holmes' area," I said.

"And yet it is yours as well," said Dr. Mauer.

I shrugged.

Dr. Mauer sighed and seated himself in a chair. "Lawler will have to build the coffin this time. It was always Albright who used to do them…now, instead, he'll be in one. I don't know if that's irony, or…" He trailed off and shook his head.

I wanted to say something reassuring, but the words died on my lips. Instead, I bade farewell to the doctor and with a heavy heart, made my way back to the inn.

Though I eagerly anticipated learning of Holmes' findings, the conversations I'd had today cast a dark cloud over my excitement. This town had seen suffering, and while we could not fix it, we would at least seek justice.

When I entered the inn, I expected to see if Holmes was in his room, and if not, to wait for him to return. This proved unnecessary: Holmes was seated at a table near the door, a half-empty bowl of stew before him. He gestured for me to join him.

"I would apologise for keeping you waiting," I said with a grin, "but you appear to have wasted no time in partaking of our host's board."

Holmes laughed aloud. "I seem to have taken over your usual role."

"Quite so," I replied as I seated myself across from him. "You appear to be in a good humour. Was your day well spent?"

Holmes was delayed in answering by the innkeeper's daughter, who asked if I wanted any food. My friend asked for coffee and I ordered a stew—Holmes' meal smelled delicious—and then bade Holmes answer my question.

"More or less well spent," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I learned a good deal, but I am uncertain how much of it will be relevant to this case."

"That's rather how I feel about it as well," I replied. "I've learned a good deal of gossip about the Blomberg family, especially, though I don't know how helpful any of it will prove."

"You took notes," said Holmes.

I nodded, handing him my notebook. "Even of those things that did not seem overly relevant. If there is one thing I have learned in our five year association, it is that I cannot take too many notes."

"Hm," Holmes replied, flipping through the pages. "It would be nice if they were more organised, or if I could decipher your handwriting."

"I suppose your notes are clearer, then?" I challenged.

Holmes pulled out his own notebook and showed me how each page was labelled by date, case, and persons to whom he was speaking, and I had to admit that his handwriting was a tad neater than mine. It was not by a wide margin, however.

I steered the conversation away from note-taking before he could outdo me in any other capacity. "What did you learn of interest?" I asked.

"Only a few points," he replied. "First, that Hieman was the only one to leave the train on its Wall Lake stop; most departed at Fletcher or stayed on till Carnarvon. One of the others on the train that night was a Wall Lake resident, so I took the opportunity to speak with him. This man is the local blacksmith, Abbet by name, and he saw Hieman speaking with two men he did not recognise. One was perhaps thirty and bald, with a round face. Abbet believed the other to be ill, as he wore a thick enough hat and muffler that his face was hidden, and he shivered more than was normal on such a mild night."

"Interesting," said I, making mental note of these descriptions. "Perhaps he was suffering from a fever, or some nefarious degenerative disease."

"Perhaps, though at the moment, we have too little material to suggest much of anything about that matter. But that is not even the half of it," Holmes continued, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Abbet also saw—" He paused as the serving girl brought me my soup and Holmes' coffee, and as soon as she was out of earshot, he continued. "Abbet saw Lena Hallstrom on the train that night, Watson."

I raised an eyebrow. "After breaking off the engagement, she followed him?"

"Indeed," Holmes replied. "And it appears she was trying to follow him without being noticed herself, for she wore a bonnet that hid her face from most angles and kept a scarf about her neck and jaw. Our witness told me he never saw the two so much as look at one another, which he found odd, as he knew they were engaged."

"Now that is interesting," I replied thoughtfully.

"It may be nothing," said Holmes. "Abbet claims Miss Hallstrom departed the train at Fletcher, so perhaps her presence on the train was not as relevant as it at first seems. But all the same, we must pay this young woman a visit."

"I quite agree," I replied.

"Good," said Holmes, laying a pair of train tickets upon the table. "We shall take the late afternoon train into Sac City."


	15. Miss Hallstrom

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

 **Miss Hallstrom**

After finishing our meal, we headed for the train station. The sky had grown dark during our time indoors, both due to the waning day and grey clouds gathering low in the sky. Our timing was careful, so we had only to wait a few minutes in the cold for the train to arrive. It soon did, and forty-five minutes later found us in Sac City.

It was not difficult to find the home of Lena Hallstrom; one only had to say the name, and all knew in which direction that family lived. The houses in this small cluster were the largest, newest and most grandiose in the hamlet, and the greatest of these belonged to the Hallstroms. It was a tall structure of red brick, encircled by a large white porch and a white fence surrounding. The snow was fastidiously shovelled from the path between the stairs of the porch and the street, even that which had fallen earlier in the day.

I followed Holmes up the stairs to the porch and onward to the front door, noting that the house, while not overly pleasing to the eye, did carry a strong sense of self-assurance. The door was answered by a smartly clad housekeeper; she brought our cards to the occupants, who in turn gave word that we should be admitted to the sitting room. It was a stately room, with high ceilings, rich carpet, and potted plants, both exotic and local. Oil paintings hung upon every wall. A fire blazed in the great hearth and every window was unshuttered. The overall impression was neither comfortable nor wholly impressive.

Moments after entrusting our hats and sticks to the housekeeper, Holmes and I were greeted by Mr. Hallstrom, followed closely by his wife. He shook both of our hands firmly. "A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. What brings you here to Sac City? I was under the impression you were in Wall Lake seeking a jewel thief."

"So I am," Holmes replied as we seated ourselves. "But I am also learning what I can of the unfortunate passing of Mr. Hugh Hieman. Am I correct in recalling that your daughter, Miss Lena Hallstrom, was previously engaged to him?"

"Yes, of course," replied the father, "but she has nothing to do with the matter."

"Even so," replied Holmes, "she may have knowledge of something without recognising its significance. Is Miss Hallstrom home at present? I have only a couple of questions; it should not take more than a quarter hour."

Mr. Hallstrom frowned, then shrugged.

"I shall fetch Lena," said Mrs. Hallstrom. She exited quickly, leaving us alone with the husband, whose expression soured as soon as his wife left the room.

"Lena has nothing to do with it," he repeated.

Holmes said nothing. The two men stared one another down for several long seconds, which stretched into a minute.

The uncomfortable atmosphere was broken at last by the arrival of the ladies of the house, who seated themselves side by side on a nearby settee. I could not help but notice, however, that the younger woman's body was angled a little more than slightly away from her mother.

"If I may," said Holmes, "I should prefer to speak to Miss Hallstrom alone."

Mr. Hallstrom bristled and opened his mouth to speak, but his daughter cut him off before he could begin.

"It is no trouble, Father," said she. "If he is to discover what happened to poor Hugh, he needs all the help he can find."

Mr. Hallstrom's proud chest deflated somewhat at his daughter's words, and he excused himself and his wife from the room.

Miss Hallstrom sighed and relaxed into the settee. "I'm sorry about my parents. It's like they're always trying to make up for the fact that we used to be poor."

"No apology is necessary, Miss Hallstrom," Holmes replied.

She smiled. "Just call me Lena; I'm not nearly so formal."

"Miss Lena," Holmes began again, "it is my understanding that you broke off your engagement on the eighth of January, the afternoon before he met with tragedy."

I quietly pulled out my notebook and readied my pencil.

Lena's wide eyes were downcast for a moment. She nodded, and when she lifted her head, her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Yes," she replied. "That is correct. But Hugh would never have ended his life over it—or anything. He couldn't have." She wrung her hands, guilt written all over her handsome young features.

"I quite agree," said Holmes.

I handed her a handkerchief.

"Thank goodness somebody does!" said she, dabbing at her eyes.

"Was there anything you found unusual in your then-fiancé's behaviour on the last occasions you saw him?"

Lena coloured. "He seemed perfectly normal, happy even, until I told him that I—I…" she faltered. "That I no longer wished to marry him."

"Of course," said Holmes. I gave him a sharp look, silently warning him to be gentle with the poor girl. He either did not notice, or pretended not to, for he ploughed forward with his questioning. "What was your reason for ending your engagement with Mr. Hieman?"

"Really! That's a rather personal question."

"I would not ask if I did not think it important. I apologise for causing you discomfort, but you must tell me why."

She looked away. "I simply no longer felt the way I once had about him. Feelings can change, you know. I—I think Hugh understood, but he was crushed all the same." She put her head in her hands.

"Did you see him again after he left your home?"

"No, of course not!" she snapped. "I went to stay with a friend that evening and never saw Hugh again."

"Have you seen or spoken with Silas Albright in the past few months?" asked Holmes.

She shook her head. "Goodness no. He knew how to tell a good story, but he didn't much like Hugh, so I saw less of him as time went on. He did not seek me out after Hugh's…after Hugh, either. I imagine he was too busy attempting to woo Alice Harrison."

"So I have heard," Holmes replied. "That is all I have to ask. Thank you for your time, Miss Lena." Holmes stood, and I followed suit.

She handed me back her handkerchief before clearing her throat and calling for a servant to show us out. As soon as we were out of the house, Holmes spoke. "If ever a woman still loved a man, Miss Lena Hallstrom's affections never wavered."

"Why break off the engagement, then?" I asked. "And why follow him in secret after doing so?"

"Why indeed," Holmes echoed.


	16. A Bit of Baritsu

_**Chapter Sixteen**_

 **A Bit of Baritsu**

Holmes was pensive and silent as we retraced our steps to the Sac City train station. When we reached the station, I was surprised to see Reagan waiting for us, considering the setting sun and the cold now enveloping us. Wondering if Holmes had arranged this meeting and said nothing, I glanced to him, but his furrowed brow betrayed that he was as surprised to see Reagan as I was.

"Marshall!" I greeted him as we approached. "For what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Have there been some new developments?" asked Holmes.

Reagan rubbed his hands together and shivered. "Not exactly," he said, motioning for us to follow, "but I believe I have something that might interest you. Come with me."

I glanced at Holmes, whose expression was like that of a bloodhound who has suddenly lost all trace of his quarry's scent.

Marshall Reagan led us to the Sac County jail and into the Sheriff's office. The Sheriff himself was absent, and Reagan gestured to his small desk, around which we gathered.

Several books and paper covered in small, neat handwriting lay upon the table. Reagan shoved everything to the side except for one large volume with a dark blue cover. The lettering was faded, but I caught a glimpse of the title before he opened it: _The Encyclopaedia of Martial Arts._

"This is completely off the record," said Reagan, running a finger down the listed contents, stopping at _Baritsu, p. 358_ , "but the more I thought about Hieman's death, the more it seems like it wasn't an accident, especially in light of Albright's." Reagan began flipping through yellowed pages of small text and line drawings. "I'm here officially about the Blomberg theft, but justice is more important than following the rules, so I've been trying to figure out how somebody managed to throw Hieman noiselessly out of a window such that it would kill him. I borrowed these books from a library in Des Moines a couple days before you arrived, and I think I may have figured it out." He stopped at page 371 and pointed to a section describing a manoeuvre that used an opponent's weight against him when his back is to you. With enough force, I could imagine an action of this sort being used to propel an unsuspecting man through a window, but as the window was not broken in the process, Hieman must have opened it beforehand, or else it seemed unlikely that he was caught unawares from behind in this way.

"Remarkable," said Holmes when he had read it. "I believe you have hit upon the truth. Well done, man!"

Reagan coloured with pride and embarrassment.

I was stunned for a moment. It seemed a possibility that this was how it was done, but surely there were others? Or perhaps Holmes saw something in this that I did not. I said nothing aloud.

"I'm glad you aren't finding this as hare-brained a notion as Sheriff Sweet did. Would…" Reagan hesitated a moment before continuing, sounding a trifle nervous. "Would it be too much trouble to tell me what you have learned so far?"

"Not after you have provided me with such important information," Holmes replied. "But I must be brief if we are to make the last train to Wall Lake this evening."

The next ten minutes consisted of Holmes relating many facts and conjectures we had determined over the past few days to Reagan, who made neat little notes to himself as Holmes spoke. When Holmes had finished, Reagan thanked us profusely.

"You will not regret informing me about all of this!" said the young detective. "And if you ever need my help, I'll be here at this little desk here or room number four at Sac City's inn."

With that, we shook hands with the young Marshall and made our way to the train station.

On the train ride back to Wall Lake, Holmes was once again pensive and silent. This was strange to me, since Holmes normally reserved this state for times when the trail was cold and the facts too few, and he seemed so full of excitement and interest back at the jail. Taking my life in my hands, I questioned him about it.

"After such an important discovery, I'm surprised you're not a bit more cheerful."

Holmes gave a dry laugh. "An 'important' discovery indeed! We already knew our man was stealthy and a skilled killer. It hardly matters whether the particular set of moves he used originated in Japan or England or the Moon, for that matter."

"But back with Reagan, when you were praising him like he'd made the discovery of the century—"

"Ha!" Holmes laughed. "Do I detect a trace of jealousy in your voice, old fellow?"

I flushed and opened my mouth to make some retort, but Holmes was quicker. "It was a large step for him to give us such information, which in his mind was an important discovery. As such, it ought to be rewarded. It is no little-known fact that appealing to a man's ego is one of the surest ways into his confidence. It is to our advantage that Marshall Reagan trust and confide in us; who can tell what developments he may discover before we do."

Though I would never say it aloud, I was a little glad that Holmes' treatment of the young officer was not what it had seemed. "All the same," I said, "you could have told me this was your strategy. Perhaps I might have been of more help."

Holmes only shrugged, reclined in his seat, and closed his eyes.

Night had fallen when we found ourselves once again in Wall Lake, and it was bitterly cold. My time in Afghanistan ensured I would have less difficulty with heat than with cold for years, and between the strong winds and sheer low temperature, it seemed it would be medically unsafe to be outside any longer than the walk between the station and the inn.

"Tomorrow we shall see if we can gain access to the late Mr. Albright's rooms," said Holmes as we defrosted our limbs before the fireplace in his room.

"I hope it is not so cold then," I replied, though I had a sneaking suspicion the chill would be far from gone.

My suspicions proved correct; the morning air seemed no better than the evening's had, though I held out hope that this was because the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. A brief inquiry of the innkeeper was all that was necessary to point us in the direction of Albright's home, which proved to be a small apartment two blocks from his place of business. The flat was within an unimpressive but by no means shabby three-story building, and we were greeted promptly by the landlady, Mrs. Bingman.

Mrs. Bingman welcomed us in before even learning of our errand. She was a heavyset woman, nearer to the age of a grandmother than a mother, though not by much.

"Of course you can look around," she said, though not until Holmes had placed two quarters on the table in front of her. "It's really no trouble at all. Would you like me to show you to Mr. Albright's room?"

"Actually," Holmes replied, "I should like to put a few questions to you first."

"Ask away," said she. "Oh, one moment, I'll fetch my husband. He may know more than me about Silas, but keep in mind he's deaf in his left ear and his right isn't what it used to be, so don't take it personal-like if he asks you to repeat yourself or plain doesn't answer." She bustled from the room—a small, cosily lit and furnished parlour with a fire in the hearth—and returned a minute later with a gentleman perhaps ten years her senior on her arm and brought him to a chair across from where Holmes and I were seated.

"Did either of you notice any sudden or inexplicable changes in Mr. Albright's behaviour, habits, speech, or anything else in the days leading up to his death?" Holmes asked.

"Eh?" grunted Mr. Bingman.

Holmes repeated himself with considerable volume.

"There's no need to shout, son," he said in reply.

"Just answer the man's question, dear," said Mrs. Bingman. She turned to us. "I noticed no such changes in his habits, except that he was working much longer hours than usual. Did you notice anything, Harold?"

The husband shook his head. "No."

"I see," said Holmes, who glanced in my direction.

We each knew what the other was thinking: Lawler had said nothing of Albright working longer hours.

"Do you know anything about the state of his finances?" Holmes continued.

"Not good," Mrs. Bingman replied. "Usually pays rent a day or two late, but sometimes only after I threaten eviction. Though I don't think he's ever been more than two weeks late."

"No, he never did like your yeast cake," Mr. Bingman growled.

"Neither do you," said Mrs. Bingman. "Would you like to speak to the other tenants? I don't believe either of them have left yet this morning."

"That would be excellent," Holmes replied.

"I shall go fetch them." Mrs. Bingman hurried from the room, leaving us alone with her aging husband. Mr. Bingman looked several times as though he thought of saying something, but never did. A minute later, his wife returned with two men behind her. The older gentleman, called George McGloin, was perhaps in his late fifties and eyed us with sad interest from beneath shaggy ginger brows. The second man was Allen Hayden, much younger and thinner, and he only stared at the floor near his boots. There was an emotion in his dark eyes that may have been grief but could have easily been a quiet anger.

Holmes greeted them and introduced himself and his purpose. I thought he would begin his questions directly, but he stopped himself. He turned to the landlord and his wife. "Might I trouble you to leave during this interview?"

"Certainly, it's no trouble," said Mrs. Bingman. She helped her husband out of his chair and they left the room.

"And close the door behind yourselves?" Holmes added.

Mrs. Bingman looked a little disappointed, but she shut the door all the same.


	17. The Dead Man's Rooms

_**Chapter Seventeen**_

 **The Dead Man's Rooms**

Holmes turned to the two tenants. "Now. Did either of you notice any changes in the behaviour of Mr. Albright recently?"

"Frankly," said McGloin, "I never paid much attention to his comings or goings or doings."

"I wish I could say the same," said Hayden. He could not mask the bitterness in his voice. "But I have not paid as much attention of late, nor have I noticed any recent changes. There was nothing he said or did that made me think he would do himself in. I would think he'd have wanted to offer a few apologies before sending his soul to God or the devil."

"An apology to you, perhaps?" Holmes inquired, with a gentleness of which I often forgot he was capable.

"Indeed," Hayden intoned. "But I don't wish to waste your time on my tale."

"By no means," Holmes replied firmly. "I should be most interested to hear what you have to say."

Hayden sighed and straightened his posture. "A little over three years ago, I finally found the kind of girl I was looking for. I'd been travelling from farm to farm as a hired hand since I finished eighth grade and eventually ended up here. Sarah Herring was her name, sweetest little thing there ever was. I worked for her father from planting till harvest for two years. When I had enough saved to rent a little apartment with her, I just had to find the courage to ask her to marry me, but then Albright decided to pursue her as well. Poor Sarah was taken in by the bastard's charm, but he dropped her after a couple months, like I knew he would, and she moved fifty miles north of here to get away from him. I think she teaches school up in Buena Vista county now." He shook his head. "Sorry. It still makes me angry."

"It would any man," I replied. It seemed this Mr. Albright was one of the most insufferable cads I had ever had the misfortune to meet. I felt a twinge of guilt in my chest; he had not deserved the untimely death he received.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Has there been anything at all in Albright's behaviour, words, comings, or goings that you noticed, even if it seems hardly worth mentioning?"

"I wish I could help you, boys," said McGloin, but I'm afraid I truly didn't notice a thing."

The younger man shrugged. "He was out more than usual this past week or two, I think. No idea why. That's the only thing, though."

"Thank you both for your time," said Holmes.

The four of us rose and the two tenants returned to their rooms.

Mrs. Bingman was just outside the door, presumably eavesdropping, and she led us upstairs to Albright's room, once again insisting it was "no trouble at all". McGloin and Hayden lived in the second-floor apartments and Albright had lived on the third floor. There was space for a fourth tenant next door to Albright's room, but Mrs. Bingman informed us that no tenant had lived there in a few months. I could see why the second-floor rooms were preferred: the ceilings were a good eight inches higher.

Mrs. Bingman unlocked the door to Albright's room and left us to our task. I followed Holmes into the little flat and was forced to stoop at the doorway. Holmes, already inside, looked nothing short of comic. A sudden image of Holmes investigating a child's play-house with everything modelled at child's size flashed through my mind and I tried and failed to suppress a laugh.

Holmes turned and cocked a wary eyebrow at me. "Do cease your giggling while I investigate," he said dryly. "It is somewhat distracting."

"Of course," said I. "You are a mite too tall for this space."

"I had managed to deduce that for myself," said Holmes, ducking through another doorframe from the little sitting room into the bedroom. Still grinning, I followed my friend into the inner room.

Albright's bedroom was surprisingly ordinary. I had been friends with Sherlock Holmes long enough to know that a murderer makes his bed the same as any other man, but it struck me immediately as a place where I might relax or sleep comfortably, were I but an inch or two shorter.

Something very different struck Holmes immediately, for we had not been in the room a moment before Holmes dropped to his knees before the grate, his nimble gloved hands retrieving the remnants of charred paper. Blowing the soot gently from them, Holmes set three scraps of blackened paper side by side on the nearby writing desk.

"Let us hope at least some of this can be recovered enough to be read," said Holmes.

"Indeed," I replied.

Holmes was already searching the room over for additional clues, and did not answer, nor indeed, seem to hear my response. I turned my attention to the nearly destroyed papers upon the table. As Holmes and I did not yet know of any way to recover burned paper, it was a lucky thing that these remaining pieces were largely intact and a portion of each was yet uncharred. Unfortunately, the handwriting itself was difficult to decipher, and coupled with the flaking edges and copious soot, deciphering any of it was a difficult task.

… _identity of my associate…your concern…payment will not…will inform…_

The first missive had only these phrases yet intelligible, and I hastily scrawled them into my notebook for future reference before turning to the second. _My associate,_ I thought; that made it sound as though our stealthy burglar-murderer had an accomplice.

… _1st and Sherwood…twenty…half-past six…Word about…certain…J.C.W._

The initials appeared to be a signature of some kind, and from the few phrases left, the writer seemed to be less terse with Albright than in the first, if they were indeed scraps of different missives.

… _more detail on Tuesday…additional five dollars…west of town. Come alone…and burn…_

With a jolt, I realised Albright was killed on a Tuesday. I scrawled these words down as well. I whirled round to tell Holmes my findings only to see him already striding toward me, excitement and horror mixed in his features.

"You've found something!" said I.

"As have you, it would seem," Holmes replied. "Tell me."

I eagerly described my findings from the burned paper. His brows furrowed with thoughtful interest. When I drew his attention to the initials at the bottom of the second missive, he gave a triumphant "Ha!"

"Come, friend Watson," said he. "Allow me to show you what I've learned." He led me to the other side of the bed where a small side table sat with its drawers open and a cheque book upon the top. "I looked through the bottom drawer of this stand and found his record of bank transactions. Many things can be gleaned from a man's cheque book, and Mr. Albright is no exception." He pointed to a particular entry, dated three weeks previously: _S &W Model 3 to B. Whitney_. It was followed immediately by the payment of his rent, which he could not afford until after that transaction.

"He was indeed hard up for cash," I observed. But why had Holmes drawn my attention to it? My mind raced to catch up to his.

"Watson!" snapped Holmes. "You are not truly so dense that the significance of this fact escapes you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"If he sold his revolver three weeks ago to cover his rent," I began, repeating what I knew to stall for time, "did he have any others? Perhaps a rifle or some such thing…but it's less likely he would have another handgun." An image of Albright with a revolver in his hand and his gore in the snow flashed through my mind and I gasped. "Then whose revolver was in his hand?"


	18. Something Burning

_**Chapter Eighteen**_

 **Something Burning**

I gasped. "Then whose revolver was in his hand?"

Holmes clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Precisely! I flipped through his records for the past seven years, and he purchased the revolver later sold to this Whitney fellow nearly four years ago. If he did own another firearm, he must have purchased it before that time, and it seems strange that he would sell a newer handgun and keep an older one. In that case, he might have sold one of lesser value and still paid the rent. Therefore, I think it more likely this was his sole handgun."

I nodded. It added up too well; even Sheriff Sweet could not deny it now.

Holmes had his magnifying glass out now and had dropped to all fours. I retreated to the doorway to watch his progress, brain still reeling. Someone had gone to great lengths to make Albright's murder appear to be a suicide; only for good reason would someone leave their firearm in such a position, for they would never get it back. Two faked suicides and a jewel robbery. What a lot of trouble this little town had seen in a short time!

Holmes stood with an irritated grunt, bringing me out of my reverie. "Nothing more to be gained here, I think. Though we have already learned much more than I had hoped."

I could not disagree with that assessment.

Holmes carefully moved the scraps of paper on the table to an envelope, holding it gingerly by the edges. I imagined it was useless to hope the papers' condition would not worsen between here and the inn, but even so, our discoveries left us in high spirits as we left the little flat. Not even the threatening grey clouds or the biting wind could dampen our spirits that morning; we were hot upon the scent of our quarry, and gaining ground.

I'd eaten some breakfast and was returning to my room when I smelled smoke. Dashing the last few steps down the hall, I threw open Holmes' door to see him kneeling before the grate.

He started at the sound of the door opening. "Watson!" he snapped as he whirled around. "Are you incapable of knocking?"

"I smelled smoke," I said. "I thought I could knock after I made sure you weren't being consumed by flames."

"Well, I am clearly in no imminent danger of burning to death, am I?" said Holmes dryly.

I wordlessly took a step back and rapped my knuckles on the still open door.

Holmes sighed and collapsed into a chair. "Someday, Watson, your pawky strain of humour shall push me over the edge into insanity."

"Not before you kill yourself with one of your experiments," I replied, crossing the room and throwing open the window. "What is it you're doing, anyway?"

"Experimenting with a couple methods of recovering burned paper to at least some slight degree. But in order to test these methods, I need to burn a few messages."

"I hope you are close to done with that step, lest the fire brigade arrive and the good innkeeper send us packing."

Holmes chuckled, but I was really not in a joking mood.

Neither was Holmes a minute later when the innkeeper's wife arrived and gave him a dressing down that rivalled the worst I'd seen delivered by Mrs. Hudson. By the time she stalked out of the room, the detective's gaunt cheeks were as red as the embers in the hearth. His chagrin turned to anger as soon as the woman was out of earshot, and for the sake of my safety and sanity, I beat a hasty retreat behind her.

* * *

It was hours till lunchtime, but the dining area seemed a safer place to be than next door to Holmes while he was in such an unpleasant mood. I occupied my time reading every local newspaper the innkeeper could provide me, with vague hopes that I would find some clue. I decided to read the past two month's issues of the _Wall Lake Chronicle_ , _Odebolt Reporter_ , _Fletcher Courier,_ and _Sac Sun_ , but after three hours and no results, my patience was beginning to flag. Even so, I did not notice that a middle-aged woman had seated herself across from me until she spoke.

"Dr. Watson, isn't it?" said she.

I started, but quickly regained my composure, noting that my doctor's bag was nearly in the way of walking and tucked it under the table with my foot. "Yes, I am."

"You aren't going to find anything in there," said she, nodding towards the newspaper in my hand.

I frowned. "I'm not certain I take your meaning."

She chuckled. "You're one of the English detectives, aren't you?"

"Well, my friend Sherlock Holmes is the detective," I replied frankly. "I'm a medical man, by training, but I assist him at times."

"Same difference." She waved an airy hand. "If you want to know what there is to know about the happenings around here, you best head down to the U.S. Postal Office on Boyer Street, between 1st and 2nd, and have a chat with Nancy Lou Pattison, postmaster's wife."

"Thank you," I said, though I doubted I would take her advice.

"It's a shame about poor Lena Hallstrom," the woman continued. Her words were sympathetic, but her tone was icy. "Her breaking off the engagement, and then Hugh dying all of a sudden."

"Surely you are not suggesting—" I began.

"Shh!" said she and lowered her voice. "Who can say? But if anybody in town knows what's happening from here to Sac City and back, it's Nancy Lou. Pay her a visit instead of reading this garbage—and tell her Maggie Wilcox sent you."

"Yes, thank you, madam," I said.

"Oh, don't thank me yet, but I'm sure you'll want to later," she chirped, scooting off the chair and rising to her feet. "Good meeting you, Dr. Watson," said she.

"Likewise, Ms. Wilcox," I replied, struggling to keep my tone free of exasperation. There was no chance of my following her advice, I thought.


	19. The Post Office Woman

_**Chapter Nineteen**_

 **The Post Office Woman**

It was half-past noon when Holmes found me in the dining room. I had already eaten and was halfheartedly perusing _The Des Moines Register_.

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, sitting down across from me. "Catching up on local news, are we?"

"As much as possible, though I don't think it will be of much help. There is little detail here about that which we know, and even less about that which we don't." I flipped open the _Wall Lake Journal_ of a month earlier. "Even the details of Hugh's death are glossed over in favour of a lengthy obituary, informing us that the services 'were attended by a large concourse of relatives and friends, who thus testified to his worth' and that 'the deceased has always endeavoured to so live as to give no just cause for offense, taking for his guide the golden rule.'"

"Helpful for the morale of a small community in shock, but not so helpful for our purposes," Holmes replied. "We shall have to consult other sources if we are to have any hope of useful news."

I chuckled at his words, then recounted the conversation I'd had with the woman Maggie Wilcox. Holmes' response was not what I expected.

"Certainly learning what you may from the town busybody cannot hurt," said he.

I stared at him. "You think I should speak with this Pattison woman?"

"It isn't as though you have anything more useful to do at the moment."

That stung more than it ought to have. I opened my mouth to retort, but thought better of it, and instead departed for the local postal office.

I was frustrated greatly by the time I arrived and was overtired enough—not to mention my lunch had not settled properly—that I had a rather difficult time hiding my sour mood.

The woman behind the counter looked up from the papers before her as I entered. She appeared to be close to my age, but her hair and dress were the style of an older woman. "Penny for your thoughts, Doc," said Pattison, resting her elbows on the counter.

I gave a dry laugh and made to reply when it dawned on me that she did not know me, nor could my doctor's bag have given me away, as it was back at the inn, or my accent, as I had not yet spoken.

"How do you know who I am?" I asked.

She chuckled. "English coat, mostly, and I read Sherlock Holmes described as 'over six feet' and 'excessively lean'. While there's no denying you've got an inch or two on most of the boys around here, you've got a ways to reach six feet, and I don't think anyone would term ya 'excessively lean'. So I figured you'd be Dr. Watson."

"That is correct," I said. I was surprised and could not keep it out of my tone.

"What brings you here, anyway?" Pattison asked.

I shrugged, trying to decide where to begin. "I'm here at the recommendation of a Ms. Wilcox. I wondered if I could have a moment or two of your time."

She cocked an eyebrow and gave a smirk of a smile. "Hate to let you down, but I am a married woman."

I coloured as I understood her meaning. "Not in that capacity!"

Pattison burst out laughing. "I'm only teasing."

I glanced around. "Your husband is the postmaster, is he not?"

She nodded. "He's passed out drunk in the basement."

I could not tell if she was joking and decided not to ask.

"Anyway," said she. "You don't seem interested in mailing anything, so I suppose you're here for gossip. What is it you're looking to know?"

"Do you have a price for your information?" I inquired.

"I don't deal in cash, just news," she replied. "If I've got news for you, you've got news for me. Agreed?"

"I believe I can work with those terms," I replied.

"Excellent," said Pattison. "What is it you're looking to learn?"

"I have two main questions," I replied. "The simpler one is this: do you know of any Wall Lake residents with the initials J.C.W.?"

She frowned and held up a finger to indicate "one moment". I watched as she opened a drawer and flipped through the papers therein. "No J.C.W.'s on my list," she replied, "and none I can think of off the top of my head. We don't do rural delivery here yet, so let me flip through the rural mail that has yet to be collected." She opened another drawer, this one with envelopes and a couple parcels and rifled through it as well, then shook her head and closed the drawer. "I'm afraid I'm of no help on that one," she replied. "Perhaps they live in another town's jurisdiction, or they receive too little mail for me to recall them."

"No matter," I replied. "It was a shot in the dark and I had little hope of striking anything with it."

"You had another question, though," Pattison said.

"Indeed," I replied. "This one is more delicate than the other."

"My lips are absolutely not sealed," she replied.

I hesitated.

"I just mean I can tell you anything I know. I don't have to tell anybody you came asking about it."

"All right, then," I replied. "What have you been hearing of Lena Hallstrom?"

Pattison frowned. "Not good things, I'm afraid. Supposedly, she has been paying a number of visits to a friend in Fletcher with whom she had not been on good terms for quite some time—and that is a definitive fact."

"A male friend or a female one?" I asked.

"Female," she replied. "Her name's Amanda Meyer. She and Lena have been feuding for nearly a year. Over what, we can only guess. One day they were the best of friends, and the next, neither wanted to so much as hear the name of the other. Curious, isn't it?"

I supposed it could be. "And the two seeing one another again? I suppose that sort of behaviour is not so unusual for young women."

Pattison sniffed. "Personally, I wait to come to conclusions until after I know everything there is to know."

"What else is there to know, then?" I asked.

"Lena and Amanda have done none of the little social things together that girls their age and status often do. In fact, they are never seen in one another's company in public. Instead, Lena will ride out to Fletcher on one train, go to Amanda's home, and be on her way home on the next train, so generally less than an hour. That is not the sort of behaviour one would expect of girls repairing a friendship."

"I am no expert," I replied, "but that is curious."

"I should say so!" Pattison exclaimed. "Now, handsome, what sort of things have you and your fellow detective been ferreting out?"

I was delayed in answering by the door opening behind me. I stepped out of the way of the door, and a stocky man in his thirties hurried inside, shaking the snow out of his hat.

"Hell of a thing," he said. "I leave to deliver three envelopes and already my wife's flirting with other men."

"Only behind your back, dear," she replied, leaning over the counter to kiss her husband on the cheek.

The husband grinned at his wife and turned to me. "Pleasure to meet you, sir," said he. "Name's Jim Pattison."

"Dr. Watson," I replied, and shook his outstretched hand.

"I suppose you're here to fish for local gossip?" he said.

"I'm afraid so," I replied.

"I'd rather you hear it than me," he replied. "I don't give a rat's ass who's not speaking to whom and whatnot. Be careful my dear wife doesn't talk your ear right off your head and out the door. Perhaps I'll see you around sometime, Doctor." With that, he disappeared up a flight of stairs.

I turned to Mrs. Pattison. "'Passed out drunk in the basement'?"

She laughed. "Your face when I said that… Don't mind our sense of humour. It's one of the few things that makes winter bearable here. Anyway, what were you going to share?"

I had not yet decided, so I hesitated another moment. "I'm afraid most of the interesting parts of what I know are already common gossip."

"Give it a try, anyway," she replied impatiently.

"That Mr. Hieman was purposefully murdered."

She nodded. "So I heard."

"That Mr. Albright was also killed."

"Oh, yes," she replied. "I was one of the first informed, I believe."

I thought for a moment. I did not want to give anything away that Holmes would not want to be common knowledge by the entire community and its neighbouring farmers.

"Come now, sweetheart, there must be something," said Pattison. "Or we'll all think you and Mr. Holmes are here for the balmy weather and not doing any investigating at all."

I laughed. "I feel as though we have done nothing but investigate!"

"What is something you learned yesterday or today, then?"

"Well," said I, deciding all information from Albright's rooms was off limits, as he had not yet informed Reagan of it, "we did find it was quite likely Mr. Hieman's killer utilised a form of martial arts called 'baritsu' to incapacitate and kill him silently."

"Ah," said she, her eyes lighting up. "Now that is intriguing. Thanks, Doc!"

"My pleasure," I replied politely, and made a hasty exit before I could reveal any more information.

The clear blue sky and bright sun seemed to mock the frigid air that surrounded me as I stomped back to the inn through the thick snow. I dearly hoped Holmes would not be displeased with me for revealing what I had, and that he would take an interest in this news of Lena's strange behaviour.


	20. Guns and Gossip

_**Chapter Twenty**_

 **Guns and Gossip**

When I arrived once again at the inn, Holmes had resumed and completed his work with the burned paper and was seated in the armchair by the fire, sitting such that his knees were tucked under his chin. He glanced at me, dejection written all over his sharp features.

"Have you gained anything from these tests?" I inquired, though his expression told me it had not gone well.

Holmes gave a humourless laugh. "No method of which I am yet aware can restore burned paper. If only Mrs. Hudson had allowed me to finish this experiment months ago at Baker Street, I would not have squandered time on it now."

With my friend in this state of mind, I dearly hoped my news would improve his mood rather than worsen it.

I pulled the other chair closer to the hearth, so I was seated across from him. "I did learn something curious from Pattison, the post office woman."

Holmes, who had been staring moodily out of the window, looked up at me. "Yes?"

It seemed prudent to begin with the bad news. "In exchange, I told her about the baritsu theory of Hieman's incapacitation and murder," I said.

"Yes, yes," Holmes waved his hand. "It's of little importance and would have spread through the usual channels of gossip swiftly enough either way."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "In return, she told me something curious about Miss Hallstrom."

"Indeed?" Holmes gestured for me to continue.

"She is, in private, frequently visiting a friend with whom she has been on poor terms for quite some time."

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. "Young women often have such tumultuousness in their lives."

"That is what I thought at first as well," said I, "but have you ever heard of a young lady calling upon a friend for a matter of less than an hour, when it is over an hour round trip to get there? And never engaging in any social events together, only meeting in private?"

"Perhaps one or the other has become more reserved with age," said Holmes with impatience.

"That is not the impression I got from Mrs. Pattison," I replied, though I could not disagree with Holmes' assessment.

Holmes sighed. "Well, either way, it would seem to be the only lead we can act upon at the moment." He gestured in disgust to the burned papers. "While they give strong impressions, I cannot prove anything except that a J.C.W. was in communication with Albright before his death, especially as I am unable to decipher any more than that which you wrote in your notes."

I frowned. "You referenced my notes?" I checked my pocket, and my notebook was indeed gone from it.

Holmes closed his eyes and gestured to the nearby table where sure enough, my notebook rested. "It was unhelpful."

I retrieved it from the table and sat back down. "Pattison didn't know of any J.C.W.'s around here, unfortunately."

"No matter," replied Holmes. "They may not even be our culprit's real initials."

"What of the gun Albright sold?" I asked. "Can we prove nothing from that?"

Holmes shook his head. "I inquired at the gunsmith's shop, but it was rebuilt last year, having burned to the ground and all previous records lost."

"So we have no way of definitively proving that the revolver used to kill Albright was not his own." I sighed. "This case is turning into rather a knotty problem."

Holmes shrugged. "That lead was a shot in the dark. There would always be a chance he purchased a firearm far enough away we would not be able to track down record of the sale."

"I suppose so," I replied glumly.

Holmes sat upright, sliding his feet from the chair's seat to the floor. "Let us hope your gossip of Miss Hallstrom provides us with some new information or at least a new direction. Perhaps we can even learn her reasons for following Hieman on the train that fateful night."

So it was that we found ourselves once again on the way to Sac City, in hope that we would be able to convince Miss Lena Hallstrom to confide in us, and that what we learned would shed a little light into at least one of the many dark corners this case had to offer.

Upon arriving at the Hallstrom home, Holmes explained to the housekeeper and repeated to Mrs. Hallstrom that recent developments had left us with a question or two that we thought her daughter might be able to answer. It took some gentle persuasion, but after discussing the matter for a minute or two, the woman allowed us to speak to the young lady of the house.

Once the three of us were seated, Miss Hallstrom looked at us curiously for a moment before speaking. "I must confess I am surprised to see you both again so soon."

"We did not leave yesterday with any intention of returning, but developments in the intervening time have caused questions to arise to which I believed you might hold answers," replied Holmes.

"Very well," she replied.

I cut in before Holmes could launch into the matter at hand. "I must warn you," I said, ignoring Holmes' reproachful glance, "that the questions put may seem personal or arbitrary in nature, but rest assured we would not ask were it not in the interest of seeking justice." I extracted the notebook from my jacket and readied my pencil.

Miss Hallstrom nodded, but I noticed her hands begin to quiver when she saw I was prepared to take notes.

"Yes, thank you, Watson," said Holmes, in a tone more superior than grateful.

I quelled my indignation; now was not the time to dwell on such trivialities.

Holmes turned to the young woman. "Is there anything else you can recall about the final time you saw Mr. Hieman?"

She shook her head. "I am certain I told you all I know."

"Have you turned to any old friends in your time of distress?"

Miss Hallstrom frowned. "No. What sort of question is that?"

"An essential one," Holmes replied. "Are you certain of your answer?"

"I believe I am," she replied, brow furrowed with confusion.

"You have not sought comfort from an Amanda Meyer?"

In the space of a blink, Miss Hallstrom's jaw tightened and her eyes flashed. Then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed, and her expression was once again one of calm confusion. "I have visited Amanda several times lately, but I must confess it is out of duty rather than the desire for comfort. I owe her a favour; it's a silly thing, but I promised to take tea with her regularly while we heal the hurts dealt during our petty feud. I really have no desire to confide anything in her, but I should like to be on friendly terms."

"When was the first time you took tea with Miss Meyer for this reason?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, I couldn't say for certain," Miss Hallstrom replied. "Six weeks ago, or so."

"Less than two weeks before breaking off your engagement with Mr. Hieman?"

"Yes, but that has nothing to do with it."

Holmes' eyes dimmed with something which may have been sadness or even sympathy. "My dear, your eyes tell me otherwise." His voice was gentle and comforting, almost hypnotically so. It was a tone he utilised only when confronted with distressed women.

"Really!" said Miss Hallstrom, springing from her chair in anger.

"Very well," said Holmes. He was still gentle, but his patience was clearly waning. "Tell me, then, why it is so important to you that you rekindle, or at least maintain, the friendship you had with Miss Meyer?"

Miss Hallstrom began to pace. "Besides the favour I owe her, we were friends for years, and that is not something easy to cast aside completely, regardless of what happened afterward. Not to mention our mothers are friends, so it has been tedious to be on such poor terms."

I had to admit, her explanation was beginning to seem plausible indeed. I glanced toward Holmes, but his expression was inscrutable.

"I understand," said he. "I am sorry for having wasted all our time."

I felt my heart sink. I had only led us on a silly red herring and embarrassed a beautiful young lady to boot.

Miss Hallstrom ceased her feverish pacing. "I won't hold it against you," she replied, her formerly anxious face relaxing into a pleasant smile.

Holmes and I rose to our feet, and I followed Holmes as he approached the door. He placed his hand on the knob, but then stopped and turned to face the young lady.

"I think it might interest you to know that I am not obligated to share anything I learn with the local law enforcement or any other parties." Holmes turned the knob and made to open the door.

"Wait a moment!" she cried.


	21. Miss Hallstrom's Secret

_**Chapter Twenty-One**_

 **Miss Hallstrom** **'s Secret**

"Don't leave just yet," said Miss Hallstrom.

Holmes released the doorknob and made his way back to the chairs. "Good," said he. "Now, Miss Hallstrom, why have you been lying to me?"

The girl opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Her jaw clenched and her eyes filled with tears, which she blinked back rapidly. She collapsed into her chair. Holmes and I seated ourselves as well.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My lips are sealed."

A look of intense irritation crossed Holmes' features, and I spoke before he could push her any further away from answering.

"We only wish to help you," I said. "You have my word that any matter you might wish to confide in us, whether great or small, will not be repeated outside these walls without your consent, barring a matter of life and death."

She remained silent, eyes downcast.

"There is no rush; take all the time you need to gather your thoughts," I added.

She nodded, and her moment of silence stretched into a minute or more. At length she did speak, and though she answered Holmes' question, it was my eyes she met and not his.

"I lied to you, she said softly, "because there are things I have done about which I did not wish everyone to know. Or anyone to know."

"And Miss Meyer knows them," said Holmes.

Miss Hallstrom gave a start and whirled to face him. "You know about that?"

"I know nothing for certain," said he. "I only suspect."

Miss Hallstrom sank deeper into her chair. Her face was pale, almost grey.

I gave Holmes a disapproving look, hoping to communicate _Be more gentle with her!_ without saying a word.

"Miss Hallstrom," said Holmes, his tone softer now than ever. "As Watson said, we only wish to aid you. While I recognise this is not an easy thing to recall or recount, we cannot help you if you do not tell us what has happened to you."

Miss Hallstrom seemed to relax at his words, and she nodded. "You are correct; Amanda knows all about it. Like a perfect fool, I told her, and as soon as things went wrong with us, she's made my life perfectly miserable with it."

I gasped. "She has been blackmailing you!" I exclaimed with much heat. What a horrid friend this Miss Meyer must be.

Miss Hallstrom nodded.

Holmes' tone was gentle, almost compassionate. "Might I inquire as to the nature of this indiscretion?"

She coloured. "I was sixteen and drank a little too much wine at Alice Harrison's eighteenth birthday party. Alice is Clara Blomberg's youngest sister, so there were plenty of people from out of town invited, and no small amount spent on it. There was a young man named Walter Brown there, an up-and-coming actor from Des Moines, and he and I got to talking and drinking, and events took place that made me…less than innocent, I'm afraid. I did not realise until the next morning what I had done."

"I understand," said Holmes.

"I confided in Amanda, because she was close at hand and I didn't know what to do. But…" Miss Hallstrom trailed off and sighed. "Amanda can be mean spirited, and believed for the longest time that she could win Hugh over, since she loved him as well—or at least claimed that she did. Amanda threatened several times to tell him what I'd done, but I was able to hush her up with money. Then he proposed, and she knew she didn't have a chance. She threatened again, but I put her off, until one day she swore it was my last chance. She had written the whole thing up in a letter and showed it to me. She would only burn it if I broke off the engagement, and that was final. I felt I had no choice." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. I gently pressed my handkerchief into her shaking hands. "Thank you," she whispered. "When I saw Hugh's face, I began to think I had made a mistake, and now I know I did. I would have rather he died knowing what I had done than believing that I no longer loved him." She gave a quiet sob and hid her face behind my handkerchief.

My heart ached with sympathy. "I am so sorry, my dear," I said, meaning every word.

"Thank you, Doctor," she replied.

"Has this woman continued to torment you after Mr. Hieman's death?" asked Holmes.

Miss Hallstrom nodded. "Amanda is under the twisted delusion that I killed him to keep him from her, and she tells me that she will 'expose both of my secrets' if I do not pay the money she wants by nightfall three days from now. But I am nearly out of money, and I cannot expect any more until my birthday, yet a month away! I can't imagine what my family or my friends would think of me if they ever heard a word of this…" She dashed away a stray tear and shuddered.

"I understand that your situation is most delicate," said Holmes. "I will do my utmost to help you—"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes!" she cried.

"—on the condition that you are truthful with me from here forward and will assist with my investigation if I ask it of you."

"Of course!" said Miss Hallstrom. "I will tell you anything, help you in any way, if only you can purge my life of this terrible shadow."

"I shall do all in my power," Holmes promised. "Now, may we be privy to an accurate account of the last time you saw Mr. Hieman?"

"Yes, certainly," she replied. "I sincerely apologise for not being forthright about it in the first place." She took a deep breath and composed herself. "Let me see…everything is as I told you, except for the reason I ended it with him, and that I followed him afterward."

Holmes nodded. "I had reason to suspect as much. But why did you do it?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I could hardly bear seeing Hugh look so hurt. I put on my thickest scarf and one of my mother's coats and followed him down the street toward the station. When he was halfway there, he changed course, and went to Sac City's tavern—it's called the 'Dusty Cuff Tavern', goodness only knows why—but he stayed there for a time, and he drank alone. Being a Friday, there were enough people there I don't think anyone took particular notice of me. He left a time later, and I followed him to the train station. I kept my face hidden, and he did not recognise me. I don't know if anyone did. He sat on a bench, the very picture of despair." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she was silent for a long moment. "I had half a mind to go to him and tell him the truth, but I had still not found the courage when two men approached him and sat with him. I saw the face of one, but the other I did not. They accompanied him onto the train, and I sat several rows in front of him and across the aisle, sitting at an angle such that I could see them."

Holmes leaned forward, all attention. "The man whose face you saw! Describe him for me."

She frowned. "A little short, both men were. The man I could see was built thickly, it seemed to me, though I cannot say if it was due to muscle or fat, as we were all wearing thick winter clothing. He had a round face, dark eyes—I think—oh, I can't remember for sure about his eyes, actually. He was balding, though—he took off his hat a moment, I remember now, and his hair was a sort of sandy colour, I suppose, but he was definitely beginning to bald."

"A middle-aged gentlemen, then?" Holmes inquired.

"I'm not certain about his age," said she. "When I could see his face, it struck me that he only looked a little older than I am, and I'm not yet two and twenty."

"Intriguing," Holmes breathed. He appeared to be hanging on her every word. "Now, did you follow Mr. Hieman all the way to Wall Lake?"

She shook her head. "I intended to, but then I got off in Fletcher and went to tell Amanda I'd done what she wanted. By then it was too late to take another train home, so I slept in a spare bedroom of another friend."

"I see,' said Holmes. "If it comes to it—and it should not—would this friend be willing to swear you were there that night?"

Miss Hallstrom looked confused. "Of course. But why…?"

"When I visit Miss Meyer, I aim to convince her you could not have been involved in Mr. Hieman's death."

The lady's face cleared, and she nodded.

"Now, back to the men on the train. Did you notice the colour of the man's handkerchief or necktie?"

"What a curious question!" she exclaimed.

"It is of the utmost importance that you try to recall this." Holmes looked intently into her face.

Miss Hallstrom frowned and pursed her lips.

I knew the significance of the necktie, but I struggled a moment with the handkerchief. Then something Holmes had said before we'd even departed from London sprang into my mind:

" _The notorious 'Cleaver' Wright, the most gifted thief and murderer the American Midwest ever produced… His particular calling card is a red handkerchief."_

Even as I was thinking this, Miss Hallstrom spoke. "The tie I cannot place, but I seem to recall that the handkerchief was some shade of burgundy, or maybe a deep orange or red."

Holmes clapped his hands in exultation and turned to me. "Good fortune has found us, eh, Watson?" He returned his attention to Miss. Hallstrom and rose to his feet. "Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful, and now I shall do my part and bring a swift end to Miss Meyer's harassment."

"Thank you so much!" the girl exclaimed, and in a sudden fit of passionate gratitude, leapt from her chair and flung her arms around my friend, embracing him warmly.

Sherlock Holmes was not by any stretch of the imagination a man inclined to extend or to welcome such an action, and he stiffened. The lady sensed this and released him quickly, stammering an apology and a qualifying "I am just so grateful!"

"It is no trouble at all," he assured her, and did his utmost to appear entirely unruffled by this episode. We obtained from her the address of Miss Meyer, then quickly bid her good day and departed.


	22. The Threads Come Together

_**Chapter Twenty-Two**_

 **The Threads Come Together**

"Women!" exclaimed Holmes as soon as we were a tactful distance from the house. "I say, Watson, English ladies might be prone to emotional outbursts, but at least they have the good sense not to throw their arms about unsuspecting gentlemen!"

I attempted to stifle my laughter but failed entirely.

"Your lack of sympathy disappoints me rather," said Holmes, though the twinkle in his eye told me he was in a jesting humour now. "I daresay you would feel differently if you were the one accosted in that manner."

"'Accosted in that manner,'" I laughed. "It may have been far from proper, but she was embracing you, not attacking you."

Holmes sniffed. "You cannot convince me of that."

I changed the subject. "It is good that Miss Hallstrom has confided in us at last. There have been too many unnecessary mysteries in this case; we still don't know what Mrs. Blomberg was hiding our first day here."

Holmes nodded. "I do not expect she will confide in us, barring a similar crisis. But we have made significant progress today. Recall what Miss Hallstrom said about the man on the train."

I frowned. "You think it was the killer, 'Cleaver' Wright?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "And do you recall the initials on the letters we found in Albright's fireplace?"

"J.C.W., were they not?"

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Jesse Cleveland Wright."

"Could it be a mere coincidence?" I asked.

"It is possible," Holmes conceded, "though not so probable. But do you not see, Watson? We have a thread now that links all three mysteries: Mr. Wright's handkerchief at the Blomberg's the night after the robbery, Wright seen on the train with Mr. Hieman hours before his death, and missives signed with Wright's initials found in Albright's fireplace, one of which lured him to his death."

In that instant, it was as though Holmes had cast a brilliant light over all that was dim and mysterious in these cases. The revelation stunned me into a silence which neither of us broke for some minutes. I inwardly rejoiced that we had made so much progress.

"It is indeed good that the lady confided in us," Holmes said at length. "Though she has now given us two courses of action, and I am uncertain which is the wiser."

"What are they?" I asked.

"We shall go to the train station," Holmes replied. "But from there, we must decide if we are to seek for someone who can recall seeing where Wright and his companion departed the train that night, or if we are to take the train to Fletcher and cease the blackmail of Miss Meyer."

I frowned. "I propose we go first to Fletcher, so we arrive early enough to avoid interrupting her dinner, and fulfil our promise to remove this weight from Miss Hallstrom's young shoulders."

Holmes shook his head. "We have three days yet until Miss Hallstrom is ruined. But we have a lead on Wright now, and while he roams free, the people here are not safe."

I had to concede to that argument.

We arrived soon at the station, and Holmes began chatting amicably with the young gentleman behind the counter. With little difficulty, Holmes had shifted the conversation to the subject of the strange goings-on of Wall Lake of late.

"It all sounds real strange to me!" said the man. "And I'm glad it's there and not here, though I'd feel different if I was there and not here, I s'pose. And from the talk here, Bill O'Brian might've been the last to see Deputy Hieman alive—a sad deal, that."

"Goodness!" said Holmes. "How terrible. Is this O'Brien a colleague of yours?"

"Mhmm," the man replied. "Just a few years my senior. He gets to take the train back and forth sometimes instead of being stuck behind this counter."

"The line between Sac City and Wall Lake?"

"Oh, they'll have him on as far as Carnarvon, then take the next train back from there. Not a bad gig, but you gotta pay your dues to the dirt first, eh?"

"Certainly," Holmes replied with a chuckle. "This Bill wouldn't happen to be around this afternoon, by any chance?"

The man frowned, seeming to suspect Holmes had some purpose in mind.

My friend slipped a coin onto the counter.

The young man looked at it in disgust. "Get your dirty bribe out of my sight. We don't deal that way around here. Who are you then? Some journalist, here to stick your big nose into our business so you can write up some drivel for a newspaper?"

Holmes kept his composure. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a detective investigating the circumstances of Mr. Hieman's tragic death."

"Why didn't you say so?" he exclaimed. "No—no, keep your money, if I can help, I will. Name's Fred Roger, by the way."

"Glad to make your acquaintance," said Holmes, slipping the coin back into his pocket and shaking the young man's hand. "Now, this man O'Brien, do you know where I might find him?"

"Just north of here, if all is on schedule," Roger replied. "I can check on when he's set to stop back here, though."

"Thank you," Holmes replied.

The young man ducked behind the counter and rifled through some papers there. A moment later, he sprang back up. "You gentlemen are in luck! He works the evening shift behind the counter. It's past a quarter to four now, and he'll be here at a quarter past."

"Excellent!" Holmes replied. "We shall sit and wait, then."

Sit and wait we did, but it was warm enough inside the station and I filled the time by expanding upon my notes. Already this case seemed of interest enough to chronicle for the _Strand_.

At length, the train arrived, and Bill O'Brien stepped off it. Roger briefly explained the situation to his evening replacement before departing for the night.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said O'Brien, whose Irish lilt was more pronounced than most of the inhabitants of the region, save perhaps William Kelly.

"Quite so," Holmes replied. "I understand you were on the same train as Mr. Hieman the evening before his death."

He nodded. "I saw him get on here and get off at Wall Lake, and I reckon that's about the last anybody saw of the poor fella."

"Did you happen to notice with whom Mr. Hieman was seated or to whom he spoke?"

O'Brien frowned. "Two men," he said. "I didn't know 'em."

"Do you recall where they exited the train?"

He nodded. "That was the odd thing about it. I could've sworn they got on in Sac City, then took the train all the way down to Carnarvon and didn't get off again till Sac City, which doesn't make a lick of sense. I chalked it up to exhaustion and confusion; common enough among out-of-town folks on the evening trains."

"Do you know in which direction they departed?"

"West," O'Brien replied. "Only noticed because there are few houses that side of the station."

"Did anyone else go in that direction?" Holmes asked.

O'Brien thought for a long moment. "Just one fella, but he lives that way."

"Excellent," said Holmes. "What is his name? Perhaps he saw where they went."

O'Brien looked doubtful. "He's Old Man Martin. His Christian name is Cliff, I think, but I can't swear to it, and I doubt he could swear to anything he sees, on account of his poor vision."

"Still," Holmes pressed, "Could you tell me where I might find him?"

O'Brien gave us the man's address and directions to it. Holmes and I thanked him and went off in search of this Mr. Martin.


	23. Closing In

_**Chapter Twenty-Three**_

 **Closing In**

Finding the house of this Mr. Martin was not a difficult task, and in a matter of minutes, we found ourselves outside of a little house on the very edge of town. Holmes gave several loud raps on the door and after a lengthy pause, it opened and a gruff voice—accompanied by a stocky white-haired gentleman bearing a shotgun—greeted us with: "Who the hell are yeh?"

Holmes introduced us and our errand.

"Poor Hieman," said the man. "Name's Martin. Come on in out of the cold." He shuffled inside, set the shotgun in a corner and lit the lamp on the wall. The room brightened, and I realised it was a small and messy kitchen and smelled more strongly of tobacco than my lungs could long endure. Soon we three were seated at Martin's kitchen table, and Holmes spoke.

"On the night of January 8th, you took the last evening train to Sac City. Is that correct?"

"Sounds about right," Martin replied with a frown.

"Did you notice two gentlemen exit the train and go in the same direction as you? Both were shorter than average and would have been on the train before you boarded it."

"Good Lord, man! You talk like you were there," said the old man, eyebrows raised.

"On the contrary, Mr. Martin, I was only a few minutes ago speaking to one of the railroad employees who was also on the train that night."

Martin nodded. "That's a mite less odd, then. Two men…let me see… You know, I do think I recall seeing two strangers walking this way one night, could've been that one, but I can't swear to it for sure."

"Regardless," said Holmes, "did you see where they went?"

Martin frowned. "I don't see too well anymore, but I think they headed out of town. Only shelter that way is the tiny house Mrs. Lewis had built before she died. It's empty at the moment, while her kids decide what to do with it. Since I don't see any of my neighbours as the sort to keep a couple strangers around without telling anybody, I'd bet a buck that's where they went."

I pulled out my notebook and noted this and the following as well I could in the dim light.

"How far from town is it?"

"Fifty yards or so due west," Martin replied. "It's over a hill, though, so I can only see its roof during the day and nothing of it at night."

"Have you seen either of these men since?"

Martin shrugged. "Might've seen the one a couple nights ago. Can't say for certain."

"You have been most helpful, Mr. Martin."

"Don't mention it," replied the old man, waving off Holmes' words. "But I do have one question for ya. Are those men I saw the ones who killed Deputy Hieman?"

"I have reason to suspect that they are," said Holmes, "but I advise you to say nothing about any of this. If you see a man or two arrested tonight—and I hope that you do—then you will know what has occurred and why."

"You're going to the Sheriff from here?" he asked.

Holmes nodded.

"It's late enough he'll be home, I'd wager. Corner of 5th and Main, the little house painted blue. If he gives you any trouble, tell him Old Martin will back you up, every word. I'd come with you gentlemen myself, but I'm afraid I'm in no fit state for that sort of thing these days. But if you ever need anything more, just ask."

"Very kind of you," said Holmes. "We had better be on our way; it is after dark now."

 _And soon it will be well after dinner_ , I thought, though I said nothing.

We departed Mr. Martin's house and a walk of several blocks brought us to the Sheriff's home, only a stone's throw from his office.

"This had better be an emergency," he growled, but let us into his home nonetheless. It was a tidy place, if small, much like his office was. "I have no interest in chasing theories out in the cold. What have you come for?"

"To ask you to join me in the cold, I'm afraid. I have reason to suspect strongly that our Wall Lake jewel thief and killer is here in Sac City."

The Sheriff cocked an eyebrow. "You still expect me to buy into your phony theory that Hieman and Albright were murdered?"

"If we catch our man tonight," Holmes replied, "he might convince you himself."

Sheriff Sweet shook his head. "It's late and my feet ache. It can wait until morning."

"I'm afraid I must disagree. Two men have died already; who is to say he will not strike again? I have reason to suspect he is the killer Cleaver Wright."

"The handkerchief on the Blomberg's sill?" asked the Sheriff. "Hardly proof of anything."

"That, along with three witnesses who saw two strangers speaking to Hieman on the train the night of his death, a witness who traced them to an empty house over a hill on the west edge of town, and the remnants of a letter luring Albright out the night of his death, signed with the initials _J.C.W._ "

"Jesse Cleveland Wright," the Sheriff muttered.

"Precisely," said Holmes. "The witness who traced them to the empty house is an older gentleman called Martin, and he instructed us to tell you he will swear to what he saw."

"Well, I'll be," said Sheriff Sweet. "If that's true, and I'm not saying I'm convinced, you could talk me into going after this fella."

"Excellent," Holmes replied.

"Tomorrow morning," Sheriff Sweet added.

Holmes shook his head. "For all we know, he will be gone by morning!"

"For all we know," replied Sweet, "he's long gone now. What kind of criminal hangs around after the crime's been committed?"

"I do not know," Holmes replied, "but I intend to find out tonight."

"Intend all you want, but I need more proof to take my aching self outside to chase smoke signals. Good night, gentlemen. Careful the door doesn't hit you on the way out."

Holmes cursed roundly once we were outside. "I was certain the Sheriff would see reason, once it was set before his very nose."

I sighed and shook my head. "Shall we then seek Reagan at the local inn?"

Holmes nearly jumped out of his skin. "Yes! Of course. Come, Watson!"

And with that, I was following doggedly behind Holmes, trying and failing to match his impressive stride as we made our way down Main Street to the inn.

The innkeeper and staff were asleep, but the door was unlocked and we wandered down the hall to room four. Reagan answered the door almost immediately.

"Mr. Holmes!" he stammered. "What brings you here at this hour?"

"We require your assistance," Holmes replied. "I strongly suspect the thief and killer plaguing Wall Lake is here in Sac City."

Marshall Reagan gave a violent start. "Here? My God! Does Sheriff Sweet know?"

"Yes," Holmes replied, "but he refuses to do anything till morning, and by then our man may realise we are on his trail and flee beyond our reach."

"Right," said Reagan, as though convincing himself. "Well, I'll grab my revolver and overcoat."

"Have you a dark lantern?" asked Holmes.

"Oh! Yes, I'll light it quick and we can be on our way."

In the space of half a minute, we were outside and heading toward the empty house on the edge of town. By now, it was pitch black and bitterly cold. The wind howled mercilessly into our faces.

"I hope this wind is loud enough to cover the sound of three men crunching through the snow," I said.

"Wright may see us, though," Holmes cautioned. "We shall have to close the lantern before we come too close."

"All right," said Reagan breathlessly. It seemed Holmes' breakneck speed of walking was taking a toll on him as it was me.

The dirt road leading out of town was frozen solid, slick patches of ice coating it here and there. Wagon wheels had carved deep ruts and horse and boot prints left irregular dents, making the way treacherous in the dark. All exposed skin stung, and the contents of my nose were well and truly frozen. We were silent, our energies all absorbed in moving forward through the foul weather. The old war wound in my shoulder was beginning to ache fiercely, but I gritted my teeth and said nothing. I became accustomed to extreme heat during my time in Afghanistan, but am less inclined to withstand the cold.

Our progress was slow, but soon we passed Old Martin's home. Holmes gestured for Reagan to close the shutter on the dark lantern and we crept along as steadily and stealthily as three men can in the dead of night in mid-winter. We came to the crest of a hill, and looking down the other side, I could see a small house, perhaps twelve by twelve feet. A dim light shone between the cracks of the shutters. Someone was inside.

Holmes leaned in close and whispered, "Watson, cover the back to ensure he does not escape that way. Reagan and I shall corner him from the front."

I crept around the house, keeping below sight of the windows. There was no back door, but two windows, both shuttered. I set down my doctor's bag and stood between the two windows with my back to the house and readied my service revolver.

I heard a loud knocking, followed by a thudding noise like one jumping to their feet and the unmistakable sound of a firearm being cocked.

"Who's there?" growled a voice from within.

"Sherlock Holmes." The detective's voice was strident and masterful. "Leave your weapons and join us outside and we will not harm you."

Wright did not answer, but a scuffling sound came from within.

I heard Holmes' voice again, clear despite the howling wind. "This is your final warning."

There was a clattering to my right, and I whirled round to see the shutters flying open and a figure launching through it into the snow. I leapt at him, grabbing him by the knees as he scrambled to his feet and brought him crashing to the ground again. The man threw wild punches and kicked madly. The punches I dodged, but a boot collided with my chest, knocking the wind out of me. My grip loosened, and he squirmed out of my grasp. I grabbed one of his legs, but he shook me off. My revolver was barely out of my reach and he snatched it up. I still could not breathe.

The yard flooded with light as Reagan rushed around the corner holding the lantern aloft, Holmes running before him.

"Stand down!" Holmes called. "You are outnumbered."

As breath returned to me, I looked up to see our quarry, wild-eyed and dishevelled, holding two guns aloft. "I could shoot both of you dead before you have time to draw," Wright sneered.


	24. Two Gunshots

_**Chapter Twenty-Four**_

 **Two Gunshots**

"I could shoot both of you dead before you have time to draw," Wright sneered.

The wind howled, and Reagan lowered the shade on the lantern to keep it from going out. The yard dimmed, and it seemed to me I had fallen largely out of sight. I crept through the snow, on my forearms and knees. The dark and the wind masked my progress.

"Would you bet your life on it?" asked Holmes.

"Would you bet yours?" Wright returned.

I was behind a large tree now, and Wright only three feet away. I groped around, hoping for a branch I could use as a club, when a hand clapped over my mouth.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I turned my head to see who my assailant was. The dark made it difficult to tell for a moment, but then I made out the white moustache and hat of Sheriff Sweet. He released me and whispered, "That's Cleaver Wright?"

I nodded.

"Then I say we get 'im in the leg." In the space of an instant, the Sheriff had drawn, fired, and Wright collapsed to the ground with a yell. Wright fired wildly, and I ducked behind the tree, grabbing the Sheriff's arm to pull him after me. I barely heard the lawman's yell over the wind and the gunfire, but I felt him stiffen and I could see the hole in the other arm of his overcoat.

The gunfire ceased, and I pulled the Sheriff's good arm over my shoulder and we struggled to our feet and around the tree. Wright lay face down in the snow and Holmes held three guns now. He handed me my revolver when I approached.

"Sheriff's been shot," I said. "I'm taking him inside. Bring my doctor's bag."

Holmes nodded. He and Reagan were dragging Wright, now in handcuffs, to his feet.

"Best not move your arm," I said to the Sheriff.

"Wasn't planning on it," Sheriff Sweet replied with a groan.

I managed to bring Sweet nearly to the front door when I heard a noise like galloping horses. I looked up to see two men on horseback descending the hill.

"Sheriff! You've been shot!" cried one of the men.

"We heard gunfire," said the second man. "Came to see what happened."

The horses quickly closed the distance between us. The first man leapt off his horse and steadied it. "Come to my house. It's warm, and I can send my wife after Dr. Irwin."

"I'm a doctor," I said. "Is your house nearby? We must stop the Sheriff's bleeding quickly."

"Just over that hill," the man replied. We worked together to get the Sheriff onto the man's horse.

"Go," I said. "Staunch his bleeding. I'll be right behind."

I turned to the other man. "The man we came to arrest is injured as well. I need to take the bullet out of his leg so he survives till his trial."

At that moment, Holmes and Reagan came round the corner holding Wright between them. He struggled only feebly, and a trail of blood followed them.

"Aye," said the horseman. The three worked to get the injured and handcuffed man onto the horse and they followed the first man.

Holmes handed me my doctor's bag. He and Reagan strode quickly up the hill and I followed as quickly as I could. My chest ached terribly and my breaths came shallow and painful. I hoped my ribs were only bruised and not broken.

Holmes noticed I was falling behind and halted a moment. "Watson, are you hurt?"

"Just a little battered and bruised," I replied. "Are you?"

"I am sound," Holmes replied.

"Not hurt," said Reagan.

"Thank God for that, at least," I replied. Two men were plenty to heal in one night. I turned to Holmes. "Did you think he'd jump out of that window?"

"I thought it probable," said Holmes, "but I knew you would not allow him to go far."

Breath came at too high a cost to answer, and even had it not, I knew not what to say.

We hurried over the hill and the house immediately to our left was brightly illuminated from within. A young woman stood on the porch, a wailing infant in her arms.

"One of you is a doctor?" she asked.

"I am," I replied.

"Mrs. McCarthy," she said. "Come in, my husband and my brother are clearing a space for you."

We followed her inside, where the Sheriff lay on a cot and two men were laying Wright down on what appeared to be a kitchen table with a bed sheet or two over it. The one man I realised was O'Brien, the man from the train station. The other was Mr. McCarthy. Both injured men had fallen unconscious. Whether that was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen.

"Cut off Wright's pant-leg and try to staunch the bleeding," I said to O'Brien. "McCarthy, get me some hot water."

"Will he be all right?" asked Reagan. "The Sheriff, I mean."

"He is not a young man," I replied, cutting through the Sheriff's overcoat. "But with a little luck and no infection, he will pull through. The faster I remove the bullet, the better."

Holmes touched the young Marshall on the arm. "Come. Let us leave the Doctor for a while."

It was going to be a long night.

After gently wiping the blood away, I could see that the bullet in the Sheriff's arm had struck the ulna four inches from his wrist. The bone was fractured, but the break was clean and set with little difficulty. Though the Sheriff awoke while I was working, McCarthy and O'Brien held him down for me and I managed to extract the bullet. I checked for signs of internal bleeding, stitched the wound closed, and wrapped his arm tightly.

I turned my attention to Wright. The bullet that struck his leg had passed nearly through it, tearing muscle and fat behind his shin, halfway between his knee and ankle. After removing the bullet, all I could do was clean, stitch, and wrap it and hope for the best. He would have to walk with a crutch or aid of some sort until it healed.

It was nearly half-past two in the morning when I had done all I could do. O'Brien and McCarthy assured me they could take it in shifts to watch over the men, ensuring they did not worsen and Wright did not attempt to escape. I thanked them, washed the blood from my hands, and left the kitchen.

I had made up my mind to lie down in a corner of the sitting room to sleep, but when I entered the room, Holmes and Reagan were there speaking with Mrs. McCarthy, whose baby was either still crying or was crying again. Six other men and another woman were there. Old Man Martin and Roger from the train station I recognised, but the others I did not know. It appeared that in my absence, the McCarthy's tiny sitting room had become the setting for a late night town hall meeting, attended by a number of frightened and confused neighbours.

They fell silent when I entered.

"How are they both?" asked Reagan.

"It's too early to say for certain," I replied, "but they should both be fine in a few months, the Sheriff a few more than Wright."

A wave of exhaustion passed over me and I realised I had been on my feet since early afternoon with no food since a light lunch, which now seemed an age away.

"Watson?"

I glanced to Holmes. He appeared uncharacteristically concerned.

"Yes?" I replied.

"You look unwell, my friend." He turned to Mrs. McCarthy. "Have you an extra bed where the good doctor could rest himself?"

"Just point me to a nice bit of floor," I broke in.

"Of course," said Mrs. McCarthy. Still cradling her infant, she led me to a little bedroom at the back of the house.

"Thank you so much for your kindness and hospitality," I said. "And to your husband as well. I truly appreciate it."

"No trouble," she said. "We are happy to help, especially for the Sheriff." The baby wailed loudly.

"Quite a pair of lungs on your little one," I said with a smile.

"Yes," replied Mrs. McCarthy. "Lucy's a little colicky, and she's been keeping us up at all hours for nearly two months now."

"I'll take this corner," I said. "Feel free to send Holmes and Reagan and anybody else in here; I'll be asleep as soon as I lie down."

Unfortunately, the aching of my chest kept me from falling asleep as quickly as I'd hoped. I turned over once or twice, then decided to have a look at my chest. I drew closer to the fire and pulled up my shirt. I checked for broken bones. There were none, but I was pretty well bruised; parts of my skin were turning interesting shades of blue and green.

"Good heavens!" came Holmes voice from behind me.

I started and quickly pulled my shirt back down. "Just bruises. I'll be fine."

"Take the bed, at least, you old fool," he said.

"Does anyone else need it?" I asked.

"You need it," said Holmes. "Get some rest; I believe we have a long day ahead of us."

"We always have a long day ahead of us," I groaned, climbing into the bed. It did hurt less than the floor.

Holmes did not answer, or if he did, I was asleep before I could hear it.


	25. Two Patients

_**Chapter Twenty-Five**_

 **Two Patients**

I awoke at dawn the next morning, likely due to a combination of cold and hunger. Reagan and Holmes lay still asleep upon the floor, the former visibly shivering. I slipped out of bed and stoked the dying embers before adding a log. I stepped carefully over the two detectives and made my way down the short hall to the kitchen, intending to check on the injured parties.

I instead found that they had been moved and Mrs. McCarthy was in the early stages of preparing breakfast. The baby was again on her hip, but in a much more congenial mood than she had been the previous evening, though the dark circles under the mother's eyes told me that between the child's ill temper and the events of the previous night, life was taking a toll on her.

"Good morning, Doctor. The Sheriff and Wright are in the sitting room," she said. "They awoke during the night, but I believe they are both asleep now."

I thanked her and found that my patients and doctor's bag were indeed in the sitting room. O'Brien was keeping watch, slouched over and blinking slowly. I sent him off to rest. The Sheriff still lay upon a cot and Wright had been moved from the table to the settee. The home had no gas, so I lit an oil lamp by which to see and set to checking the condition of the Sheriff. I removed the old bandage and was relieved to find that he had not lost much blood in the night and there were no signs of infection. I dabbed away the thin layer of dried blood near the wound and was in the process of re-bandaging when the Sheriff awoke.

He greeted me with a string of curses that would put a sailor to shame. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Putting a clean bandage on your arm," I replied.

The Sheriff grumbled but did not resist.

"Thank you for coming to our aid last night," I said.

"Yeah, well, I could tell you idiots weren't going to listen to reason," he growled. "At least your friend Holmes wasn't wrong about where we'd find Wright. Though I can't say as I'm pleased to have him as a bedfellow." He nodded toward the unconscious murderer on the settee.

I chuckled. "You seem well enough off to cease intruding upon the McCarthy's hospitality at any point today, though you must be careful with that arm and immediately alert me or another local doctor if the condition worsens."

"Easy for you to say," replied the Sheriff. "You know how difficult it is to move without breaking open your bullet holes?"

I smiled. "Unfortunately, I do. And more unfortunately than that, dealing with gunshot wounds is no less gruelling as a doctor than as anybody else."

The Sheriff quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose you and Mr. Holmes ended up in a bit of a fix?"

"Not one quite so bad, but it could still happen," I replied. "No, someone put a Jezail bullet in my shoulder in Afghanistan five years ago. Then I took ill, and they shipped me home on a stretcher. It was a poor time and makes for a poorer story. You have been shot previously as well?" I began unwinding the bandage on Wright's leg as I spoke.

"Yes, but mine's a better story," replied the Sheriff, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Twenty-five years ago, I got nicked pretty bad in the thigh during the Civil War. It was the Battle of Athens and I was under Colonel David Moore. I made it till near the end of the battle though, and the Missouri rebels only took thirty of us out, though there were three hundred of us and nigh on two thousand of them. They took to their heels through the cornfields. We took four hundred of their horses and a wagon load of long knives."

I grinned. "That is a far better story." I brought the lamp closer to Wright's leg and swore.

"What's that, then?" asked the Sheriff.

"A little internal bleeding," I replied. "It's starting to swell, there, by the tibial artery. I have to take the pressure off before he loses a foot."

"Sounds pleasant," replied the Sheriff. "Here's to hoping the morphine keeps him quiet."

A careful incision and forty gruelling minutes later, my task was complete and Wright's leg bandaged again. Wright awoke about halfway through the process but fainted almost immediately from the pain. I pitied him, despite the number of people dead by his hand.

The Sheriff fell into a doze and I made my way back to the kitchen to see if I could assist the good Mrs. McCarthy. I found Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy, her brother O'Brien, Holmes, and Reagan already digging into a breakfast of ham and eggs. I was glad to see that Holmes was actually eating—rather than merely picking at or pushing around—his food. Mrs. McCarthy quickly rose and put some food on a plate for me as well. I thanked her and pulled up a chair next to Holmes.

"How are your patients?" he asked.

"Well enough," I answered. "The Sheriff a little better than Wright, though I think it will be safe to move him to the jail by this afternoon." I turned to Mr. McCarthy. "There is a doctor in Sac City?"

He nodded and held up a finger while he finished chewing. "Dr. Irwin. He lives about three blocks from the jail and I'm sure he'll take care of the Sheriff and Wright as soon as you need to head back to Wall Lake."

That was well indeed; I was beginning to wonder how I would balance my duties as a doctor and as assistant to Holmes. But now that all crises seemed to be averted, the pain in my chest was back in earnest. After breakfast, I checked my patients one time more, and we thanked our hosts profusely before departing the home of the McCarthy's.


	26. Hidden Missives

_**Chapter Twenty-Six**_

 **Hidden Missives**

The sky that morning was clear and blue and the temperature as moderate as I had experienced since our arrival in Iowa. While on the second train of the morning to Wall Lake, Holmes turned to me with a sly, self-satisfied smile and spoke with a low voice. "While you were busy sleeping last night, I was continuing our investigation."

"Well, one of us has to sleep for both of us," I replied with a grin.

"Ha!" Holmes laughed. "Quite so."

"What did you learn?" I asked.

"I have found and learned much," replied Holmes, leaning back in his seat and placing his arms behind his head.

"Specifically…" I prompted. He was enjoying piquing my curiosity far too much.

"This," said he, retrieving a necktie of a garish shade of green from a coat pocket.

I gasped. "The one that snagged on the Hieman's house?"

"Precisely," Holmes replied, setting it aside.

"From the house Wright occupied?" I asked, wincing as the locomotive jarred my injured side.

"Naturally," Holmes replied.

"And it is not even the best of what I discovered."

"Out with it, then," I urged. "What else did you find?"

"Letters," said he, producing a bundle of papers from beneath his coat.

"How on earth did you find these?" I asked. "Or even know to look for them?"

"Observation and deduction," said Holmes. "I heard Wright concealing something before I broke down the door. It must have been near the back wall, for he was out of the window before I was one step into the room. Therefore, I checked under the floorboards and found these."

"That is not so complex," I replied.

Holmes shrugged and smiled. "I'm sure it would have seemed more impressive had you seen it in person."

"Have you made any deductions about them?" I asked.

Holmes lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "The contents are most instructive, but we must not speak of them here, in case of unwanted listeners."

I nodded mutely, wondering what was contained in the letters.

"The paper and ink were of some little interest," said Holmes.

I raised an eyebrow. "How is that?"

"They are written on stationery with the letterhead cut off, rendering the paper more squarish than is usual. The ink, however, is quite plain."

"Strange," I replied.

Holmes nodded but said no more.

My curiosity about the letters caused the train ride to seem to drag into hours or perhaps days or weeks of unending dim sunlight and insatiable curiosity. At length, we arrived back in the little town and found ourselves back at Holmes' room at the inn.

"Well, out with it!" said I.

"There are six letters here," Holmes said, "from someone with the initials P.T.C. to J.C.W., to Wright."

"It is certain he had an accomplice, then," I replied.

"No, Watson," said Holmes. "Wright _was_ the accomplice."

"You do not mean to say there is someone more brilliant and dangerous than Wright behind all of this?" said I with no little amount of exasperation and disbelief.

"That is precisely what I mean to say," Holmes replied.

I collapsed into a chair and sighed. Was it not enough we had already captured one of Midwestern America's most notorious outlaws? How much more difficult to find and capture would this P.T.C. be than Wright was?

"I agree," said Holmes, answering my expression rather than my words, as was his wont at times. "I, too, believed we had caught the larger fish, but…" He scowled and shook his head. "I was wrong."

"Good heavens," I said. "Well, what on earth did you learn from those letters that put you in such a pleasant mood?"

"Perhaps you ought to read them first, so you have the opportunity to come to your own conclusions," Holmes replied, pulling the other chair over and sitting across from me.

"Fair enough," I said, and he handed me the letters. I shall not reproduce them here in full, for they were lengthy and full of abbreviations and veiled references.

The first was dated January 9th and stated that while "things are running smoothly," there was "no sign of the goods yet" and shared the word on the street about what the Sheriff knew of the death of Hieman and the robbery of the Blombergs. The second was shorter, stating that P.T.C. was working towards "a solution". The third was written a couple days after the second. It thanked Wright for "striking a new deal" and noted Holmes' arrival. The fourth was about Albright, and that Holmes suspected he was involved. It ended with the words: "They do not suspect me yet, but I fear they are closer on our trail than we know. Good luck."

I looked to Holmes. "'They do not suspect me yet'… Then we have seen this P.T.C."

"Precisely," said Holmes.

"But how does a thief and killer hide in such a small town?"

"I suspect he does not have to hide, because he is a part of the small town."

"Of course!" I cried. "Good Lord, I wonder who he is and whether we have spoken with him."

Holmes shook his head. "It is difficult to say with certainty."

I picked up the fifth letter; it mostly dealt with searching for "the goods" and P.T.C.'s growing frustration. I frowned.

"You are confused?" said Holmes.

I nodded. "Why did Wright and this P.T.C. character not leave town after killing Hieman and taking the jewels? What was the use in staying?"

"That is what has been bothering me most about this case," Holmes replied, "but I think we finally have an answer. What if our criminals were intercepted before they managed to leave town with the jewels?"

I frowned. "That only raises a whole host of other questions!"

"But it would explain why they remained and what these goods' are for which P.T.C. is searching with such limited success."

I nodded. "I suppose so. But what evidence do we have to that effect?"

"We have three witnesses who claim they saw Hieman speaking with them on the train," said Holmes. "If Hieman tricked them into handing over some of their bounty, that would explain why they came after him."

I gasped. "Do you suppose Hieman was trying to get in on their scheme?"

Holmes shook his head. "Rather, I imagine he feigned that he was, in the interests of returning the Blomberg's jewels, or perhaps he was brilliant enough to foresee it would keep the two nearby long enough to capture them."

I shook my head. "But that information died with him."

"We may yet hope to uncover the truth," Holmes replied.

My head spun with these new theories and I turned my attention to the final letter. Most was incomprehensible to me, but the last two sentences were clear. "I have exhausted all my means of searching. Holmes is our only hope."

"That is interesting," I commented, pointing at the last line. "This person is very much counting on us."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "We shall have to be exceedingly careful regarding who we inform about information and developments."

Nodding, I continued reading to the end of the letter. I picked up the sixth. This one contained mostly information about the death of Albright, saying that Holmes had seen through the suicide ruse and warning Wright to stay hidden. "I know you hate it, but Holmes comes closer to finding the goods every day. Soon this will all be over and you can go back to Chicago."

"Chicago," I said aloud. "Mrs. Blomberg's brother lives there. When is he due to arrive?"

"He should have arrived last night," said Holmes."

"I do wonder…"

"We will know soon enough," said Holmes."

I nodded and handed Holmes back the letters.

"Ah, but there is one more," said Holmes. With a dramatic flourish, he extracted it from a pocket and placed it in my hand. It was dated between the first and second letters and was far more brief and less cryptic than the others.

 _J.C.W., I spoke with B.B. again. He still swears he was delayed and had nothing to do with what happened. He fixed the equipment and can still carry out the job. I have high hopes for finding the remaining goods. The town is in an uproar and I have little doubt I shall be able to lay my hands on them within a week. — P.T.C._

I looked to Holmes, who was radiating excitement.

"You believe this 'B.B.' might know something?" I asked.

"If nothing else, he may be able to identify the face or voice of our P.T.C., and that would be helpful indeed."

"But how on earth do we find him?" I asked.

Holmes gave a bark of laughter. "Watson, how many jewellers by the initials of 'B.B.' do you imagine there are in the area? We ought to be able to narrow the search quite quickly."

Now I understood the cause of Holmes excitement. "Let us lose no more time, then, and find 'B.B.' before lunchtime!"

Holmes shook his head. "No, let's begin by informing our clients that we have not been neglecting them, and that we have arrested one of our duo and have a lead on the other."

"Fair enough," I replied. "I do enjoy bringing good news to clients. Shall we divide the joy among us? I can speak to Anderson and you to the Blombergs."

Holmes frowned. "I should prefer to handle both myself."

"But in the interests of conserving time," I said. "I will not say more than needs to be said."

"Very well," Holmes replied. "I suppose it would be most prudent to divide and conquer."

Pleasant events are often the most uninteresting in the telling, and so it was with that morning. All were overjoyed to hear of our progress, and it was high time we began the search for information about 'B.B.'

This proved more difficult than anticipated, for Sac County had no census records or address books we could reference, and as we made our way across the town, Holmes decided that I ought to once again visit Mrs. Pattison at the post office while he tried city hall.

"Let me at least have a little lunch first," said I, with more heat than intended.

Holmes snorted. "Go ahead, Watson, I shan't stop you. In fact, I might join you."

"And eat two meals in the same day while on a case?" I feigned melodramatic shock.

Holmes delivered a teasing elbow to the ribs. It hurt far more than it normally would have and I gave a little hiss of pain.

"Sorry, old fellow!" he said, turning pale. "How are those bruises today?"

"Not much different than last night," I replied.

"No worse, at least, then," Holmes replied. "As for eating another meal, I was thinking more of a black coffee, but I might be talked into a sandwich."

I was glad when we were back to the warmth of the inn and gladder to see Holmes partaking another meal. As we worked our way through beef stew and a couple of biscuits, Holmes informed me that Albert Harrison, the brother of Mrs. Blomberg, was delayed by a blizzard in Chicago and expected to arrive this evening, and warned me to swear Mrs. Pattison to secrecy about our search for this 'B.B.'

"How do we know those are even his real initials?" I asked.

"Rarely is anything certain," said Holmes. "But, at present, it is one of the few leads we have."

I could not disagree.

We finished our food and were soon back on the street, Holmes heading to city hall and I to the post office.


	27. The Post Office Again

_**Chapter Twenty-Seven**_

 **The Post Office Again**

Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and I was glad to reach the cover provided by the post office.

"Ah! Nice to see you again, Doc," said Mrs. Pattison as I entered.

"And you as well," I replied, though I did not quite mean it.

"Well, are you looking to know something or mail something?" she asked, resting her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands.

"To know something," I replied. "Though it is of the utmost importance that you do not breathe a word about what I ask. Holmes and I have reason to believe an intelligent man with ways of getting information is still in this region and we must not let him suspect we are on his trail."

Mrs. Pattison smiled. "Fair enough," she said. "I suppose I can keep a secret if the stakes are high enough."

"There may be lives on the line," I replied. "They're high enough."

The smile left the woman's face, and she nodded. "Right."

"Do you know of anyone in this region involved with metalwork or jewellery with the initials 'B.B.'?"

She frowned and for a long moment the post office was silent except for the drumming of her fingers upon the counter.

I was on the point of telling her not to worry about it when she spoke.

"I'm afraid I can't think of anyone right off," she said, "but I'll check the mailbag in case that jogs my memory." She opened a cupboard and removed a burlap sack, carefully flipping through the envelopes inside it. "Now, I can only think of a few surnames of folks in the county starting with 'B': Blombergs, Boerners, the Brunses…Mrs. Beeberger south of town, Barnts north of Fletcher…oh, and the Brogdens. I probably forgot a few, but there's the main ones."

I hastened to scrawl this information down.

"There's only two among them I can think of that might fit your description. Johnathan Boerner is a blacksmith and Robert Brogden owns a little shop that sells a variety of things, including a little jewellery in Sac City. But somebody with a Christian name starting with 'B'…" At length, she shook her head. "Sorry, Doc."

"No matter," I replied. "Those may not even be the man's real initials. Thank you for your trouble, anyhow. Good day, madam."

I had taken perhaps fifteen paces when I heard the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Pattison from behind me.

"Doc Watson! Doc Watson!"

I turned to see the postmistress dashing down the street behind me without a coat, hat, or muffler.

"You're going to catch cold!" I exclaimed.

"I'll be fine," she replied. "But we're both idiots!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Come, let us go back inside."

We quickly covered the distance back to the post office and ducked through the doorway.

"Robert Brogden," she said, still breathless from running and the cold. "The name 'Robert' can be shortened to Rob, Bob, or Bert. I'm not on a first-name basis with the fella, but somebody might know him as Bert Brogden or Bob Brogden."

"Wonderful!" I replied. "I shall not forget this. But do not say a word to a soul if you value the lives of your friends and neighbours."

"Of course not," she replied. "Now, I believe you owe me a little news. Something I can share without endangering anybody."

I paused to think for a moment. The truth about Miss Hallstrom and Miss Meyer was too delicate a topic to mention, even in sparse detail. What of Wright?

"I suppose you heard of the arrest of Jesse Cleveland Wright?"

"Oh, yes," she replied with a smile. Then her brows knit together with concern. "How is the Sheriff?"

"He will recover," said I. "It will be a slow process, but he'll come through."

"Ah, good," she replied. "Tell me how you figured out where to find Wright."

I told her about how multiple witnesses (I was careful not to disclose any names) saw two men speaking to Hieman on the train the night he died, and that these two men departed the train at Sac City, and that one of the witnesses knew what house they entered. "It was a bit of a shot in the dark, it seemed to me, but Holmes' instincts were all pointed to it, and Reagan and the Sheriff trusted his judgment enough to help make the arrest." Perhaps that was not _exactly_ how it transpired, but that was the version I thought would make for the best common knowledge.

The entire time I spoke, Mrs. Pattison listened in rapture, and when I finished, she grinned and shook her head. "Must be an interesting life for you and Mr. Holmes, isn't it?"

I laughed. "When Holmes is on a case, I am never bored. Thank you very much again. I ought to be going so I can share this news with Holmes!"

"Best of luck, Doc!" she replied with a wave.

I was in the best of moods when I left the post office in search of Holmes. I hurried down the street toward city hall, but my ribs forced me to slow a bit halfway there. I slipped inside. It was a small, wooden structure and Holmes was flipping through a pile of documents when I entered.

"I believe I've found something," I said.

Holmes set down his papers and motioned for me to draw nearer. "Quietly, Watson, tell me."

In a low voice, I told him about Robert Brogden and how his name might be shortened and his possession of a store from which he sold jewellery. With every word I said, Holmes' eyes grew brighter.

"Wonderful!" he replied, replacing the papers into the box. "At this rate, I shall be surprised if we do not wrap up this case by evening." He rose and handed the box to a young man behind a counter and we took our leave.

"Shall we go to Sac City right away?" I asked.

Holmes checked his watch. "The next train there is not for another hour. Let us return to the inn and begin to consolidate notes into something we might provide the prosecution lawyers before we leave the country."

That seemed a fine plan, but as is the case with any plans, they are as likely as not to go wrong.


	28. The Break-In

_**Chapter Twenty-Eight**_

 **The Break-In**

The first snowflakes were beginning to fall when we arrived at the inn. As we made our way down the hallway from the dining room to our bedrooms, Holmes stopped.

"Watson, does it seem colder to you?"

I frowned. "Perhaps, though much warmer than outside."

"I do not like it," he replied.

His furrowed brow and the confusion in his eyes told me his instincts were sensing something had gone awry.

We made our way slowly and silently down the hall. Holmes unlocked his door and swung it open. A blast of cold air met us and Holmes swore.

I followed him into the room and gasped. It was a picture of devastation. Not only had the window been thrown open, Holmes' clothes had been tossed into heaps across the bed and the rug beneath, his chemical equipment was strewn over the desk and a nearby chair, and pieces of a broken beaker littered the floor. Papers covered in scrawled handwriting were scattered about the room, especially near the fireplace, where the singed remains of Holmes' moleskin notebook lay among the ashes in the grate.

Holmes dashed across the room to a small suitcase at the end of his bed. It was open and items such as lock picks, cravats, cigarettes, and pens were strewn around it. He dug through the pile, his shock and frustration swiftly turning to rage.

"They've taken everything!" he cried. "My notes, the evidence—every last God-forsaken thing." He snatched a pile of clothes from an armchair, threw them across the room and collapsed into the chair, his head in his hands. "My records are gone and so is the green cloth from Wright's tie, the letters from P.T.C. to Wright, and the letters from Wright to Albright."

I tried not to think about what I would find in my own room. Instead, I looked around for some indication of the identity of the intruder. "Perhaps if we figure out who did this," I said.

"P.T.C. or a confederate," Holmes snapped.

"I know," I replied, making my way across the room, looking for fingerprints, perhaps, or something helpful. "But perhaps there is something we can learn about him from what we observe here."

"He broke in to steal evidence that could keep his friend Wright from the rope," said Holmes. "And he succeeded."

A horrible thought struck me. "Did he take your money as well?"

Holmes shook his head. "Or if he did, it was not enough to miss it."

"Thank goodness," I replied.

Holmes blew angrily through his nostrils. "I would have preferred that to this," said he. "Money can be regained. If need be, I would have washed dishes for the innkeeper until we could afford the boat back to London. But this," he gave a sweeping gesture, "is not so easily replaced. I cannot build a case against Wright or his confederate without it!"

"We've managed in horrid circumstances before," I replied, flipping over a pile of papers. "We shall find a way to build a case against Wright and unravel the mystery of this P.T.C." I made my way to the window and stopped. "There are a couple boot prints here," I said.

Holmes was at my side in a moment, magnifying glass in hand. "Small feet, average stride," said he. "Soles are quite worn." He rose to his feet and replaced the magnifying glass in his pocket. He turned to me suddenly. "Did you have your notebook with you today?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, taking it out of my pocket. "I keep it with me at all times to avoid relying on only memory later."

"Thank God you take thorough notes," he muttered, thumbing through the pages. "Still, they are of little use without the letters and scrap of cloth to corroborate what we found."

I nodded. "Should we go to Sac City to inform Reagan?"

Holmes frowned, handing me back my notebook. "Perhaps, but it is not overly important. P.T.C. has what he wants now and I doubt he shall trouble anyone else. Our first priority must be to recover the evidence and seek this Brogden fellow." He lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

I wondered if I should break his reverie by asking if he wanted help tidying his things, then decided the better course of action would be to assess the damage done to my own room and then set to work tidying both of them. My room was thankfully not in as bad of shape as Holmes' was, though the window was open as well. I closed it before any more snowflakes could flutter inside. If they began to fall in earnest, I had a bad feeling that trains would soon be delayed or cancelled.

I began putting my own room back together with a dim hope that if I waited to do Holmes', he might begin on his and I would not have to do quite so much. Though it was more likely that he would not touch any of it unless it was needed and I would be the one to clean it either now or a week from now. Nothing of mine seemed to be missing; there was no doubt about the intruder's mission. It took well over an hour to fold my clothes, organise toiletries, and extract all those things which had rolled into corners and under my bed. When I returned to Holmes' room, I found to my dismay (but not surprise) that he had done nothing but stoke the fire and move the chair in which he was seated a few feet closer to the window.

"There are only two questions worth asking in this matter," he said and fell silent.

I began gathering clothing from all corners of the room and laying it on the bed. At length, I asked. "What are these questions?"

"First," said Holmes, "how did the boot print on the sill come to be there?"

"It's from somebody's boot, I imagine," I replied with a little grin.

Holmes snorted. "Congratulations, old fellow, you have been paying attention these past five years. I rather wish to know where the dirt and mud was before it came to cling to our intruder's boots and come loose upon the sill."

I nodded, folding a shirt.

"The second question is of the uncanny amount of information our intruder has. How did he know what I have, what to take, and why did he wait until now to do it?"

"Perhaps," I said, "with Wright in prison, his accomplice grew reckless or worried and decided to ensure the same does not happen to him?"

"Not accomplice," Holmes corrected. "The mastermind."

"Right," I replied. "But since when do notorious criminals known across the world take orders from other people?"

"The chance at a fortune makes men do strange things," Holmes replied. "Perhaps our friend P.T.C. knew this region better or would blend in more effectively."

I nodded. "Because he is a local."

"We do not know that for certain," Holmes replied, "but it seems the most plausible explanation. But my question remains: how did he know the evidence was here and not with the Sheriff?"

That was a fair point, and one for which I had no answer.

We were long in silence, Holmes in his chair, sometimes smoking and sometimes muttering to himself, and I folding his clothes, cleaning up the broken beaker (with the aid of the innkeeper's broom), and organising the chemistry equipment, books, and miscellany strewn about the room. As I worked, my brain struggled to come to some reasonable explanation for what had happened here. What bothered me most was how the intruder knew what we had to take. No one had been told of either the letters Silas received or those between Wright and P.T.C., since we had made no formal meetings with Marshall Reagan or the Sheriff since their discovery. Knowledge of the tie had most likely spread about town, so perhaps he came for that and found the letters in the process? That was possible enough, I supposed. Or perhaps P.T.C. realised the letters were missing from the house in which Wright hid. But even then: why break in here and not the Sheriff's office or home?

When I finished my tidying, I collapsed into the other chair, exhausted.

"We are in a bit of a fix on this front," said Holmes. "But I know of a task or two at which I suspect we will succeed. Come; let us take the next train to Fletcher and call upon Miss Meyer. Even should we fail to bring the rest of this case to a successful conclusion, at least we shall keep our word to Miss Hallstrom."


	29. Miss Amanda Meyer

_**Chapter Twenty-Nine**_

 **Miss Amanda Meyer**

The snow was falling thicker and faster now, but the trains were still running on schedule, so we were in Fletcher by half-past four. The home of the Meyer family was even less difficult to find than the Hallstroms had been that first time in Sac City. The house itself was not dissimilar in size to the Hallstroms, but its neighbourhood boasted no other houses nearly so grand; indeed, the surrounding ones were all half the size or less, rendering the home rather a Goliath figure. We stood on the porch, evicting errant snowflakes from our arms, hats, and boots when a large man of middle-age answered the door.

"Well, come in out of the cold, then," said Mr. Meyer. "Sorry to keep you waiting; the housekeeper's taken ill, leaving me to remember to answer the door." Mr. Meyer himself was also rather a Goliath figure, rising even higher than Holmes in stature, and twice as broad.

"I should like to have a word with your daughter, Miss Amanda Meyer," said Holmes. "It should not take long, but I would request some privacy."

"And you are…?" he asked.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," my friend replied. "And my associate, Dr. Watson."

The man nodded. "I won't stand in your way," said he, "though I doubt you shall gain much from speaking with her."

"And why is that?" Holmes inquired.

"She can be quite a devil when asked questions she doesn't want to answer." He chuckled. "As her father, I would know. But," his expression changed, "if you're too hard on her, you will hear from me about it."

With that, he marched to the staircase and called for his daughter to come down. A muffled reply descended the staircase, and the father nodded in that direction. "She'll be down in a bit. Sit by the fire, make yourselves comfortable, I'll be puttering around somewhere out of earshot."

At length, a tall and slender young woman descended the stairs. She was young and beautiful, but there was a haughtiness about her eyes and the corners of her mouth that made me uneasy. Holmes and I stood as she entered.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," said she. "What brings you here?"

"To return a favour," said Holmes. "It is a delicate matter, but one that I shall nonetheless address forthrightly."

The young woman seated herself delicately in the opposite chair and gestured for Holmes to continue.

Holmes and I resumed our seats. I nearly pulled out my notebook and pen but decided it would likely be unnecessary, as this errand was tangential to the case and it would like as not discourage her.

"Are you aware, Miss Meyer, that in this country, extortion is a felony punishable by up to fifteen years in prison?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "An interesting factoid, but irrelevant to me, I think."

"Perhaps," Holmes replied. "I am here to ensure you never need to know it."

"You have no proof," she said.

A sardonic smile played on Holmes' lips. "And yet it exists."

"You have no proof of that either," she replied calmly.

Holmes leaned intently forward. "The flicker of fear in your eyes indicates otherwise."

She made no reply, meeting his gaze without wavering.

At length, Holmes sighed. "I only wish to prevent the ruin of two young lives."

Miss Meyer sneered. "Lena has ruined herself."

"Not entirely," Holmes replied. "You believe Miss Hallstrom was instrumental in the death of Mr. Hugh Hieman, but I have a man in the county jail who has confessed to it and ironclad proof Miss Hallstrom had no motive and was miles away when his death occurred."

Our proof was not nearly as ironclad as Holmes made it out to be, but the way Miss Meyer's hands were beginning to shake, it seemed it would likely be a moot point.

"But I _know_ she did it," Miss Meyer replied through clenched teeth.

"I'm afraid there is more damning evidence against you for blackmail than Miss Hallstrom for murder," said Holmes. "Now, will you allow me to help you?"

Miss Meyer's eyes flashed, and she looked away. "I don't want your help."

"Very well," said Holmes. There was a cold anger behind his expression. "For the sake of Miss Hallstrom alone, then, I persist. I demand the return of the letter you wrote and all of the money extorted from her which you still have in your possession."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will rot in a dank prison, a disappointment to your family and friends and a blemish on your community. You will spend years living in conditions you cannot imagine and all the while wish you could return to this moment and change your mind. Give me the letter and the money and you can retain your reputation and standard of living. This chance is all that stands between you and an awful fate."

Miss Meyer shrank into her chair and sighed. The haughtiness was gone from her eyes and she seemed, in that instant, to grow old and weary. "I never meant for it to go this way," she whispered. "All I wanted was Hugh, but Lena sabotaged every chance I had to be with him, to even have a moment alone with him. I pushed back, but she wouldn't give. I got desperate, and when she came crying to me about how she slept with some actor, the opportunity to make my dream come true fell right into my lap. All I wanted was a fair chance to show Hugh that he deserved better than her. I confronted Lena, and she was so angry, she called me names that would make a soldier blush and I thought she'd gone completely insane. But then she came through, and broke off the engagement, and I thought, 'Finally! I have my chance.' But she was so calm, and something bothered me about it, though I couldn't put my finger on it. Then the next morning, Hugh was dead. I didn't realise the lengths Lena would go to keep him from me, but when I recalled the emotionless calm in her face when she told me she broke off the engagement, I saw right through her and what she had done."

Holmes spoke softly. "But she did not do it."

"So you say," she replied.

"So says all the evidence against the man in the jail cell, who has killed a dozen others before."

Miss Meyer sighed and for a long moment, she did not speak. "I suppose I have truly landed in the wrong this time."

Holmes' voice was kind and earnest. "But you have a chance to put yourself back in the right."

Miss Meyer nodded. "I still have much of the money Lena gave me, as I cannot spend much without my father noticing. I also have the letter though I said I would burn it."

"I would prefer you hand it over all the same," Holmes replied.

Miss Meyer excused herself and returned a minute later with an envelope stuffed with American bills in one hand and papers bound tightly in a string. "Nearly five hundred dollars in there," she said and handed both items to Holmes. "To be honest," she said, "I'm almost glad to be rid of it. I don't have to think about it ever again."

Holmes tucked the items carefully into an inside pocket of his jacket. "I certainly hope you never have reason to think of it," he replied. "And a most sincere thanks for your cooperation."

"Don't mention it," Miss Meyer replied. "I mean to anyone, ever. Except Lena, I suppose. God Almighty, I hate her."

We bid her a polite "Good day" and took our leave from that place.

"That is a lot of money," I said in a low voice once we were outside.

Holmes nodded. "We must go to Sac City at once and return it to its rightful owner."

The snow was falling in earnest now and we were pretty well coated in the stuff by the time we reached the train station.

"Two tickets for the next train to Sac City," said Holmes.

The young man behind the counter shook his head. "Sorry, sir," he said. "The weather's turning and the last train we'll have through here today is the one to Wall Lake, due to leave in less than two minutes."

Holmes cursed under his breath. "Is there any other way we might reach Sac City this afternoon?"

The man shook his head. "Not unless you have a death wish, sir. If the trains aren't running, the weather is bad enough nobody should be trying to travel long distances in it. They nearly cancelled the train to Wall Lake."

I turned to Holmes. "If we return to Wall Lake, we at least may sleep under a roof for which we have already paid."

He sighed irritably. "Two tickets to Wall Lake, then."

He paid for the tickets and we hurried onto the train not ten seconds before it pulled out of the station.

Holmes slumped low in his seat. "Farewell to any chance we had of returning our fair friend's money, of informing Reagan or the Sheriff of the break-in, or looking into the situation with our potential 'B.B.'"

I nodded. "It's unfortunate, but for the time being, we seem to be stuck."

Soon enough, that description became far too literal for anyone's liking.


	30. The Blizzard

_**Chapter Thirty**_

 **The Blizzard**

As our journey wore on, the train chugged along with decreasing speed as thousands of snowflakes outside fell with increasing violence. We passed several farmhouses at a crawl at ten minutes to five and it was not fifteen minutes later that the train halted entirely. The other passengers on the train, though few in number, began to mutter amongst themselves with displeasure and even Holmes was drumming his fingers loudly on a windowsill when an apologetic porter entered the car.

"I'm afraid we will be waiting here for a short time. I apologise for the inconvenience, sirs and madams, but we are experiencing whiteout conditions severe enough the conductor considers it unsafe to continue at present."

A thin gentlemen in overalls and wire-rimmed spectacles scowled. I recognised him as one of the farmers I met over lunch at the inn a few days previously. "When does your conductor plan on moving again?" Johansen asked.

The porter shook his head. "We'll have to wait and see how quickly the snow and wind dies down. Right now, if we were to step outside, I'm not sure a man would be able to wave a hand in front of his face and see it."

Johansen, Holmes and others muttered under their breaths, but the porter said no more and departed the car before anyone could shoot the messenger.

Holmes turned to me. "We seem to have gone from frying pan to fire," he said.

I nodded. "With any luck, the blizzard will begin subsiding in a few minutes."

It did not.

The porter returned twenty minutes later to inform us they were putting the engines out completely to conserve water and fuel. "It may grow rather cold," he said. "But we cannot risk using all our fuel before this weather clears up."

A woman in a thick shawl cursed the poor man roundly, and he coloured.

I tapped him on the arm as he passed. "Is there any way we can help with this situation?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not at the moment, at any rate."

As the young porter predicted, the train was growing cold, and I began to think we may have done better remaining in Fletcher.

"Do you have your notes?" asked Holmes, distracting me from my glum thoughts.

"Yes, right here," I replied, pulling the little book from my pocket and handing it to him. "I have not yet written anything of our conversation with Miss Meyer, but most everything else is up to date, I think."

Holmes nodded and thumbed through the pages. He handed it back to me a few minutes later but said nothing.

I shivered. Snowflakes the size of sixpence swirled about the train, rendering everything a foot or more beyond the car windows invisible. Somewhere toward the front of the car, a young child began to cry.

The porter returned several minutes later. "Visibility conditions are not improving, but we are liable to be stuck here till tomorrow if we don't start moving. We need another fireman to shovel in coal if we are to speed up quickly enough to push through this snow." The porter looked around the car, but the passengers around me all began taking a sudden interest in their boots or the blizzard outside.

I set my doctor's bag in Holmes' lap and stood. "What do I need to do?"

The porter looked me up and down a moment in surprise, but when no other volunteers presented themselves, motioned for me to follow him to the front of the train. I had never been in the engine car of a locomotive before. There were pipes and dials and levers all around, as well as several crates of coal. It was hot and foul-smelling. Two men were there, one seated at the controls and another shovelling coal into the locomotive's furnace. Both were ruddy and covered in a thin layer of coal dust.

"Brought this fellow to help," said the porter to the man with the shovel.

He nodded, and the porter stepped back out of the car.

The man with the shovel paused to shake my hand.

"Name's Staton," he said.

"Watson," I returned.

He handed me a shovel.

I hesitated, uncertain what I was supposed to do.

"You been a fireman before?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Then I'll take care of the water, you just worry about shovelling coal. Go as quickly as you can, but mind Clark here." He pointed his thumb to the engineer in the chair. "He'll stop us before we melt the firebox or set ourselves ablaze."

"Right," I said. I quickly removed my overcoat and jacket, now feeling quite warm indeed, and the fireman Staton pointed to a hook on the wall. I hung them there, took up my shovel and nodded.

Staton turned to Clark.

"Conductor gave me the okay," said the engineer. "Whenever you're ready, shovel like a madman till I say otherwise."

Staton opened another crate of coal and we set to work. I only knocked my shovel into his once or twice before we found a rhythm. I scooped from the crate while he threw into the furnace and vice versa. I could feel the train beginning to move forward and coal dust settling all over my skin and clothing and in my lungs. Soon my arms were burning with the efforts, but I could see the needle on a dial over Staton's shoulder creeping from zero up to twenty-five and soon over a hundred. The gauge only measured to two hundred, but Clark said nothing when we reached that mark. We emptied two crates, and I shovelled furiously as Staton cracked open a third. The needle crept ever higher, the train moved ever faster, and the muscles in my arms ached ever more keenly. My chest, still recovering from a kick from Wright's boot, felt tight and my breaths were increasingly strained.

Moments before I thought I would drop the shovel from sheer exhaustion, Clark said, "Slow it down now, boys."

I gasped and stumbled backward, catching myself on a thin railing.

"I can take it from here," said Staton.

I nodded, too little breath in my lungs for words, and set the shovel down with another in the corner. I grabbed my jacket and coat from the hook. "Let me…know if…you need—"

"No, we can handle it from here," said Clark. "Thank you, sir," he added with a smile.

"No trouble," I replied.

I made my way to the passenger car. It did not occur to me how dust-covered and exhausted I must look until nearly everyone in the car was staring at me. I sat quickly down next to Holmes, who handed back my doctor's bag.

"You look like you spent fifteen minutes shovelling coal," Holmes commented.

"I feel like I spent fifteen hours shovelling coal," I replied.

"I'll be careful not to strike any matches near you," said Holmes with a chuckle, "lest I inadvertently burn us both alive."

The train moved swiftly through the white landscape without incident, and within half an hour, we were pulling into the station at Wall Lake.

* * *

The snow did not let up.

It took some time that evening to evict the coal dust from my skin and hair, and I did my best to remove it from my clothes, but met with little success. Dinner I ate alone, for Holmes had fallen into a black mood. Night came swiftly afterward, and the view outside turned from white to a dull grey to pitch, and still the snowflakes fell and wind howled through the night.

When I awoke the next morning, I was surprised to see light streaming into my little room. Rising and peering out the window, I saw a clear blue sky and drifts of snow as far as the eye could see.

I dressed quickly and made my way to the dining room. Holmes sat sullenly drinking what I later learned was his third coffee of the morning.

"Weather's finally cleared up," I said as I sat across from him.

"But the railroad between here and Sac City has not," he replied. "I intend to return Miss Hallstrom's things as soon as possible."

"And find Brogden?" I asked.

Holmes nodded. "With luck, something he says or does will incriminate him enough the Sheriff would not object to my questioning him further."

The morning passed slowly, but the railroad was cleared enough for travel by eleven. The journey still took longer than usual, but we were soon in Sac City. To my surprise, Reagan was outside the station when we arrived.

"Good afternoon, Marshall," I greeted him.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," he replied. "What brings you to Sac City?"

"A potential lead," Holmes replied. "If something comes of it, you'll be the first to know."

"I appreciate it, Mr. Holmes," said Reagan, "and the same goes for you."

He was headed toward the station and we were leaving it, so it was there we parted ways.

I turned to Holmes. "Why did you not tell him of our errand?" I asked. "The second one, at least."

"I saw no need to do so, at present," Holmes replied, but something in his expression told me that was not all.

We made our way to the Hallstrom home.

"When the hell are you going to leave my daughter alone?" Mr. Hallstrom growled before either of us could speak.

"After today," Holmes replied.

"I do not know what your game is, Mr. Fancy Accent, but leave Lena out of it!"

"Father!" Lena appeared behind Mr. Hallstrom in the doorway. "Don't worry. I can talk to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson; I'm certain they don't mean any harm."

The father sighed and passed a hand over his brow. "Fine, sweetheart. But will anyone tell me what is going on?"

Miss Hallstrom laid a hand on his arm. "Someday I will."

He shook his head and turned away. "Well, come on in and make it quick."

We accompanied Miss Hallstrom to the sitting room. Holmes offered no preamble, but removed Miss Meyer's envelope and letter from his breast pocket and passed it to our young friend.

"Thank God!" she whispered when she saw the letter. With trembling hands, she thumbed through the American bills therein and burst into tears. "Thank you so much. I hardly know what to do with all of this money, having been without for so long!"

"Put it in a mattress," I advised with a smile.

She dashed away her tears with the heel of her hand and nodded. "I ought to be able to do a lot of nice things with it, when the opportunities arise."

"Indeed," replied Holmes. "Barring unforeseen circumstance, this will be our last meeting. I thank you once again for your cooperation."

"I could not be happier to help," replied Miss Hallstrom. "I can never thank you gentlemen enough. Here, take a couple of these, at least." She tried to hand us her money, but Holmes and I both held up our palms to stop her.

"It is yours once more," I said. "Do some good in the world with it."

She smiled. "I will, Doctor."

With that, we took our leave, but that was not the last we would see of Miss Lena Hallstrom.


	31. BB

_**Chapter Thirty-One**_

 **B.B.**

"To the shop of Mr. Brogden, then?" I asked Holmes when we were once again in the street.

Holmes nodded and set off in the direction of Main Street at a rapid clip. I found myself half jogging to keep up with him.

It was one of the businesses on the main thoroughfare: "Brogden's Smithy, Jewelry, and General Store."

"Bit of a jack-of-all-trades," I commented.

Holmes did not seem to hear me, but walked straight into the narrow place between two brick buildings. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to occupy yourself elsewhere," he said in a low voice.

"Why on earth do you believe that?" I asked. I was confused and despite my best efforts, a little hurt by the implication.

"This is dangerous territory," said Holmes in a low voice. "If Brogden is our man, and he suspects that we know it, word could reach P.T.C. by dark and I know not what the consequences would be. Rather, I would prefer we find some evidence damning enough for the Sheriff to throw him in a cell before he suspects I wish to question him."

"How do you propose to do that?" I asked.

"I shall not speak to him as myself," replied Holmes. He gestured for me to hand him my doctor's bag. He opened it and pulled out a false beard and dark green bowler cap. "I am now George Brown, a lawyer from Philadelphia," he said, with the corresponding accent.

"Impressive," I replied.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "but I do not wish to put your acting skills to the test today."

"I shall let you do most of the talking," I said. "Besides, what good can I do elsewhere? I would prefer to be at your side if things go awry."

Holmes sighed. "Fine. But I will speak for you unless you are addressed directly. Agreed?"

I nodded.

"Right, then," said Holmes. "Let us say you are my brother, John Brown, a..." He frowned.

"A journalist," I suggested. "Then I can explain away the lack of an American accent."

"Or rather, the presence of an English one," said Holmes. "Yes, that should work well enough. Speak as little as possible and take care not to contradict yourself or me."

"I shall be careful," I replied. I confess I was rather excited to be acting in one of Holmes' charades, so it was with a surge of adrenaline and eager anticipation that I followed Holmes out of the alley and up to the door of Brogden's General Store.

A little bell rang when we entered and a man in dusty blue overalls looked up from his desk and lay down a pair of pliers.

"Good afternoon, gents," said he. "Don't reckon I've seen you before. Name's Brogden." He rose to shake our hands.

"George Brown," said Holmes. "And this is my brother, John. We're family to the Hiemans."

"Nice to meet you both," said Brogden. "Family to the Hiemans, you say? That was a sad deal, what happened with Deputy Hugh. Though I don't recollect hearing of you fellas before."

Holmes nodded solemnly. "Old family feuds will do that. But everything's in the past, and we came by to wish the Hiemans well and offer them a little by way of financial support to get back on their feet after funeral expenses and the like."

"A kindness for sure," replied the shopkeeper.

Holmes nodded.

"Mrs. Hieman likely wasn't up to talking about it, but did you hear the Sheriff and those English detectives arrested a fella they think killed him, and it wasn't a suicide at all?"

Holmes gave such a start that he had to steady his bowler hat. "Good heavens!" He cried. "No, I had no idea. That is terrible indeed."

Brogden nodded. "Sad deal all around, especially after all that talk of maybe being the one who stole from the Blombergs. But with this Cleaver Wright fella in jail, it seems more likely he was the one who went after the jewels and then Deputy Hieman got on the wrong side of him."

Holmes shook his head. "Sounds like things have gotten far too interesting around here."

"Tell me about it," replied Brogden. "Between all that trouble in Wall Lake and one of my sons sneaking about—you know how kids these days are—it's been just about too much for me to handle!"

Holmes gave a dry laugh. "Our sister's children are the same way, isn't that right, John?"

"Goodness, yes," I replied. Given this opportunity, I was determined to surpass Holmes' expectations of my acting skills. "When we visited her last, little Mary wouldn't go to sleep at bedtime and James had figured out how to get into the pantry at night." I chuckled. "The oldest is the real problem, though."

"Oh, yes," Holmes cut me off before I could say more. "And she's actually the reason for our stopping in your shop, Mr. Brogden."

"Just 'Brogden' or even 'Rob' is fine," said the shopkeeper. "I don't need a 'mister'."

 _Rob Brogden_ , I thought to myself. _R.B., not B.B. after all. Damn and blast._

"Anyway," continued Brogden. "How is it that your niece brings you here?"

"Her birthday is next week," replied Holmes. "She'll turn fifteen, and we're due to return the day of her birthday, if the trains all run on time."

"Ah," replied Brogden. "Last minute gift for the little lady."

Holmes nodded. "Just a pretty little thing to let her know her uncles still care about her."

Brogden smiled. "I believe I can help with that." He stood and crossed the shop, gesturing for us to follow. "I've got the less expensive jewelery over here. Most of it is stuff folks have sold me, but I've got a few things my wife and I have put together."

"Interesting," said Holmes. "Do you cut gems of any sort, or purchase them and string them together?"

"Little of both," Brogden replied. He picked up a bracelet with little opals strung together with copper wire. "One of my sons cut these," he said. "He's seventeen now. It still looks nice enough, but I'll charge less for it than some of the others."

"It looks quite nice," said Holmes, holding it up to the light of a nearby window. "You cut these here in your shop?"

Brogden nodded. "I've got a little workshop downstairs where I fiddle around with jewel cutting, metalwork, and whatnot. I enjoy dabbling in all matter of things."

I looked about the small shop, pondering the situation, while the two discussed a few finer points about the construction of two or three little trinkets. If Brogden had the equipment necessary to cut opals for a bracelet, he might also have the ability to cut other gems, even diamonds. If that were so, our thieves would have good reason to strike a deal with him; it is notoriously difficult to track or regain gems which have been cut into smaller pieces. But there was still the trouble with his initials.

"What do you say, John?" Holmes' use of my Christian name confused me for a moment, then I remembered my role.

I took the opal bracelet which he held aloft. "I believe she will like it."

Brogden gave me an odd look. "You have quite the accent, for a Pennsylvanian."

"I've spent a good deal of time in England, lately," I replied. "The newspaper for which I work sends me there for long stretches."

"I've never been to England," Brogden said, returning to the desk at which he had sat when we entered. "Or across any ocean, for that matter. Been to Canada a couple times as I've got a cousin there. As a matter of fact, I was there last month for his wedding and didn't get back till January tenth due to the weather and all. Lovely place, all the same."

If memory served me correctly, that was two days after the Blomberg theft. It seemed quite unlikely, then, that Brogden was our B.B.

I smiled and gave some polite remark about Canada, hoping that I was successfully masking my disappointment that we had reached a dead end. The bracelet was one dollar, so Holmes and I each put two quarters towards it. We were about to leave the store when the little bell rang again and the shop door opened.

"Hey, Bill!" said Brogden. "Remember that little opal bracelet you put together last month?"

The young man nodded as he closed the door behind him.

"Well, these gentlemen bought it for their niece. How about that?"

He grinned. "Gee, I'm glad you fellas like it!"

Brogden gestured to the newcomer. "This is my son, Bill."

 _Bill Brogden,_ I thought. _Was he, then, B.B.?_ I glanced to Holmes, but his expression betrayed nothing.

"A pleasure to meet you, young Mr. Brogden," said Holmes, shaking his hand.

"And you, sirs," he replied.

We bid the shopkeeper and his son farewell and returned to the street.

"Bill Brogden," I said once we were out of earshot.

"He is our man," Holmes replied in a low voice. "You observed that he was concealing a small object within his coat?"

"Just the initials," I said. "What was he hiding?"

I turned left at the corner, believing we would return to the train station, but Holmes continued straight and I trotted to catch up with him.

"I do not know," Holmes replied. "But between his initials, connection to equipment which might be used to cut gems, age and build, his father's absence that night, and his furtive manner today, I strongly suspect he is our man."

"But how did you know he was concealing something?" I asked. "And how is his age and build relevant?"

"He gave a start when his father called his name, and his hand immediately went toward a small coat pocket. Noticing his mistake, he kept his hands clasped behind his back for the rest of the time we spent in the shop. As for his age, we must account for P.T.C. and Wright meeting with Hieman instead of B.B. Young Mr. Brogden and the late Deputy are of similar age and build. If the two had never met their B.B. in person before, and young Brogden missed the appointed time, it is conceivable that they mistook Hieman for their man."

"If that is so, it would explain a number of things which were confusing about this case," I said. "It would explain why Hieman was seen speaking with them on the train. Perhaps he realised their mistake and used it to relieve them of their booty under the pretense of taking it to cut up, and then he put them…" I frowned.

"That is the question," Holmes replied. "The one which P.T.C. is waiting for us to figure out."


	32. Just Mad Enough

_**Chapter Thirty-Two**_

 **Just Mad Enough**

We walked down the snowy street in silence for a minute.

"What do you suppose was young Brogden's motive for becoming involved with these people?" I asked.

"I suspect money. There is always the possibility of something more complex or sinister, but it seems unlikely."

"It's a shame," I said. "He is a young man. What do you suppose will be the charges against him?"

Holmes shrugged. "It seems he never actually completed their job, so he may even be let off with a warning, and even the sternest judge would not give him more than five years. He shall have time yet to move his life in a more positive direction."

I did not need to ask Holmes where we were going; by now, I recognised the way to the Sac County jail. We were greeted by Sheriff Sweet, who was as surprised to see us as we were to see him.

"Sheriff," I said. "You are aware that you ought to be resting, are you not?" As soon as I spoke the words, I began to regret them. It was to our advantage to stay on Sheriff Sweet's good side, but my medical instincts had, probably wisely, taken over.

The lawman only laughed. "Do I look like the sort of man who can stand staying in bed for days on end? I'm careful enough here at my desk, and Doc Irwin says there's no signs of infection. But what brings you two here?"

Holmes answered. "Criminal records regarding the Brogden family."

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. "You won't find any for the Brogdens of Sac County."

"I suspected as much," Holmes replied.

The Sheriff sighed. "Look, I know we started off on the wrong foot, what with you being all high and mighty, and me chasing you off properties and calling bullshit on your theories, but I'm starting to think there might be something to what you've been saying."

Holmes smiled. "I am glad to hear it."

"So what are you two doing now?" he asked, lighting a cigar. "We've got Wright, and he's been surprisingly gregarious for a killer with a game leg, so I've been taking notes. Most of it's death threats and the like, but he lets loose a little real information now and again."

"Excellent," Holmes replied. "Watson and I have been following leads to Wright's associate, who I have reason to suspect is still in the area, looking for the Blomberg jewellery. Or rather, waiting for us to find them."

"That's a strange thought," replied the Sheriff. "They lost the jewellery? I wondered why they might have stuck around."

"I believe Deputy Hieman tricked them into giving him a portion of the jewellery on the pretense of cutting it up for them to more easily sell. I discovered some documents suggesting Wright and his associate had intentions of meeting with a 'B.B.' to do so. This meeting ultimately did not occur as planned. I strongly suspect B.B. is young Bill Brogden."

The Sheriff gave a puff on the cigar and frowned. "Well, I can't haul him in here on your 'strongly suspecting', though I do see your point."

Holmes nodded. "I thought I would at least learn of his past criminal activities, if any existed."

Sheriff Sweet nodded. "Again, can't help you there."

"No matter," Holmes replied. "What have you gleaned from Wright?"

"He's told me in gruesome detail how he killed seven different men and how I am no different, so he'll hang. All he'll say about his partner is that he'll get the drop on me any day and…let me find it—" The Sheriff grabbed a notebook from his desk and began to thumb through the pages. "Ah, here it is. 'My partner will bring your old, ugly body to its knees and I'll gut you like I did my father.' A pleasure to be around, that Wright. Makes me glad we invested in thick steel bars on the cells."

"Quite so," Holmes replied. "Might I speak with him?"

"If you've got the stomach for it," replied the Sheriff. "I don't imagine you'll learn anything new, but he might surprise us."

Holmes nodded, and we passed through the door to the next room. It contained two cells, separated by a thick panel of wood as well as steel bars. The nearer one was empty, but in the second cell, Wright sat on his cot. He smiled when we entered.

"Never got a chance to thank you for stitching me up, Doc," he said.

I hesitated, unsure how to respond, or if I ought to respond at all.

"I do wish you'd let the Sheriff just bleed out, though," he said. "Have you ever watched a man bleed out?"

I had, in the army. I preferred not to dwell on it.

Wright turned to Holmes. "How's the investigation going?"

Holmes was expressionless. "Are you interested in sharing the name of your co-conspirator?"

Wright smiled. "Which one?"

"Which person or which name?" asked Holmes.

"You tell me," said Wright with a shrug.

Holmes crossed his arms. "If you cooperate, you may have a chance to decrease the severity of the punishment for your crimes."

"And if I don't, my co-conspirator or conspirators are still free." Wright leaned back in his cot and placed his hands behind his head. "Rather than there being no honour amongst thieves, I think the saying would be more accurate if it expressed our limited sense of honour. I'm not ratting on anybody."

We were silent for a long moment.

Wright stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "You can gain a lot of insight into the character of a man by the way he dies," he said. "And I would love to learn more about you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." With a twisted grin, he turned and stared at Holmes through the bars. "You would make a fascinating study."

Holmes took a step toward the cell. "I already know more about you than you ever shall about me, and my methods have the advantage of being far less messy than yours." He tapped his temple with his forefinger and smiled.

Wright cocked an eyebrow. "If you want my advice—"

"I do not," said Holmes.

"—find dear Mrs. Blomberg's riches and see what happens. He'll come for them and you'll never see him coming."

"Perhaps," said Holmes. "But what if I uncover the identity of your friend first?"

"Do you want his name?" asked Wright.

"I would," Holmes replied.

"I might consider giving it to you," he said.

I scoffed. I had not intended to do so aloud, but found Holmes and Wright staring at me, irritation in both their faces. "Honour amongst thieves indeed," I said.

"Yes, thank you, Watson," said Holmes coldly.

Wright stared at me wordlessly for a long moment. "What is it you do?"

"I am a medical man; surely you reca—"

"No," Wright waved his hand. "What do you do with Holmes?"

"I take notes," I said.

"So does he," said Wright. "Why are you here?"

I looked to Holmes. He continued to stare at Wright.

"Watson, go and wait in the Sheriff's office." His tone was infuriatingly superior. "I shall only be a minute."

Anger coursed through my veins at his tone and the way he would not even condescend to look at me when addressing me. "Right," I said through gritted teeth. I closed my notebook, placed it in my breast pocket and took my leave. I was shaking with anger when I sat down in a chair across from the Sheriff.

He raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

I nodded, deciding it would be better for Holmes if I did not explain. "Holmes is still speaking with him, for some reason."

Sheriff Sweet chuckled darkly. "Perhaps your friend is just mad enough to speak his language."

That was precisely what I feared.


	33. A Matter of Trust

_**Chapter Thirty-Three**_

 **A Matter of Trust**

I sat down heavily in one of the Sheriff's chairs, wincing as the action jarred my ribs.

Holmes emerged some five minutes later. "Pat Crowe."

The Sheriff gave a start. "He gave you a name? Who is that?"

"Crowe is the one who masterminded this scheme," Holmes replied. "Unfortunately, that is unlikely to be the name by which we know him, if it is his name at all."

 _Pat Crowe,_ I thought. _P.T.C._

Sheriff Sweet sighed. "So it is not all that helpful, I suppose. All the same, I'll telegraph Des Moines and see if they have any records on such a fellow."

Holmes gave a nod. "Thank you, Sheriff."

He turned and departed. I bid the Sheriff good day and followed behind him.

"What shall be our next move?" I asked. I was struggling to keep up with Holmes, whose long stride and swift pace threatened to leave me far behind.

Holmes slowed a little and shook his head. "I feared you would ask me that question."

"Why?" I asked. "If there is any danger, I shall not leave your side. Is there something Wright told you? Or something about this Pat Crowe fellow?"

"Do not speak so loudly," Holmes snapped. "There is no immediate danger," he added softly. "But I fear I must take action against which you may have reason to protest."

"And what might that be?" I asked.

Holmes slowed to a stop beneath a large tree separating two houses. "Do you recall the way in which young Brogden was concealing something in his pocket?"

"Yes," I replied. "I did not notice it myself, but I do recall your description and explanation."

"I believe he is attempting to finish the job he began: cutting some of the Blomberg jewels that Hieman did not take from them."

I nodded. "Little chance of Mrs. Blomberg regaining that jewellery, I suppose."

Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. "Watson, as ever, you miss the point. If enough jewels are prepared for sale with no sign of those Hieman took, Crowe will give up on them and take to his heels, bringing Wright with him."

"But Wright is locked in jail," I protested.

Holmes shook his head. "The Sac County Jail does not have the security necessary to keep a skilled burglar like Crowe from freeing Wright. Time is short. We need the identity of P.T.C. before it is too late. I know of only one way to learn it."

"From Bill Brogden?"

"More or less," Holmes replied. "If I take the jewels from Brogden, Crowe cannot use them to fund his escape. But Crowe must not know I am so near on his trail. I intend to break into the Brogden's shop tonight."

My jaw dropped. "You cannot be serious, Holmes."

He stared grimly ahead. "I see no viable alternative. Wright knows too much of our movements already and I cannot risk any more information reaching him."

"How on earth does he know so much?" I asked.

"There must be a traitor close-by," said Holmes. "Someone we do not suspect. Whether he is Crowe or merely informing him, I cannot say."

I nodded solemnly.

"There is one alternative theory that I do not like, but must consider," said Holmes after a long moment of silence.

I raised an eyebrow.

"That you have not been careful enough with information on this case."

I nearly dropped my doctor's bag. "Of course not! I have been as professional about this case as every other case with which I have assisted you."

"What of the postal office woman?" said Holmes.

"You sent me to her, I did not even want to—"

"No, none of that now; what did you tell her yesterday?"

"The broad overview of how we figured out where Wright was and arrested him. I gave no names but our own, the Sheriff, Reagan, and Wright, of course, and said nothing of the letters or any of that. When asked about the initials 'B.B.," I told her it was a lead we were following, nothing about how we found it."

"And our clients? And others to whom you have spoken?"

"I only speak of the case when absolutely necessary," I replied. I tried to keep my tone even, though I could feel frustration and anger bubbling to the surface. "I assure you, Holmes, I have acted with the utmost professionalism."

Holmes said nothing, his lips compressed in a thin, white line, and began walking again.

"Do you not trust me?" I asked.

"Watson, be reasonable," he said. His tone had returned to that infuriating superiority he had used back at the jail.

"You be reasonable!" I replied with some heat. A woman exiting her house across the street froze, staring at us. I lowered my voice. "We have worked together many times over the past five years. I should think you would know me well enough by now to know I am not a careless man. As a doctor, I cannot afford to be, and I treat your cases with the same level of care and professionalism as I do my own."

Holmes' expression did not soften.

I waited for a response, but he offered none. We walked in silence to the train station. Holmes and I would often fall into thoughtful or companionable silences, but this one was different. There was a coldness to it which rivalled the worst of the weather we had seen in Iowa.

"Holmes, please think of a more reasonable course of action," I said in a low voice as we reached the station.

He shook his head. "We tried reasonable, and it has failed us. I would not be surprised if we wake up tomorrow morning or the next and our quarries are halfway to Chicago. No, we must go after B.B. and we will do it tonight."

"We?" I shook my head. "I cannot agree to this. The ends do not justify the means. You know that."

"What, then, would you suggest?" he snapped.

"Something sane. And preferably legal," I replied. "I do not see how this solves your problem, even if it works."

"Then I shall do it alone," Holmes replied, pulling out his pocket-book. He handed me a dollar. "I'll see you in Wall Lake."

I glanced at my watch. "The sun will not set for three and a half hours. Might I remain and be of some little use yet this afternoon?"

My friend looked me directly in the eyes. "I neither require nor desire your company."

I snatched the dollar from his hand. "Fine. As you seem to have no interest in listening to reason, I imagine I shall have better luck retaining my sanity if I remain as far from you as possible."

Holmes said nothing but fixed me with a stern glare.

I turned on my heel and stalked to the ticket window. I did not look back.


	34. The Tavern

_**Chapter Thirty-Four**_

 **The Tavern**

Had I really done so remarkably badly on this case? The question plagued me on the train ride back to Wall Lake that afternoon. Holmes had been unreasonable, of that I was certain, but to what extent was he right? And if I had been more patient, would he have allowed me to stay by his side?

I did my best to put it out of my mind, but I was in a dark mood indeed when the train pulled into the station, and was surprised to see the clouds had turned even darker and it had begun once more to snow in earnest. I hoped Holmes would not be snowed in at Sac City, but part of me thought it would serve him right. I sighed heavily and began slogging through the old and new snow toward the inn. Once there, I stoked the fire and paced restlessly for a time, feeling as though I should do something but lacking the focus to do it. Dinnertime came and went, and I began to feel as though I would go mad if I did not leave my little room. I pulled on my overcoat and decided to take a walk, despite the darkness and foul weather. I had barely walked ten steps when a male voice called out to me from the other side of the street.

"Doctor Watson!"

I turned and squinted. "Lawler?" I called back, for his wiry figure and unique voice made me suspect it was the eccentric inventor.

"It's me all right," he said, trotting across the street. "But what brings you out in this weather?"

I shrugged.

"Holmes send you out in this?" he asked.

"No, I sent myself out in it," I said with a rueful smile.

Lawler raised an eyebrow. "Anywhere in particular you're headed?"

I shook my head.

"How about the tavern?"

"Sounds as good as anywhere," I replied.

He clapped me on the back. "First pint's on me!"

I laughed. "Well, I don't intend to go past one, but that's very kind of you."

"Nonsense," Lawler waved me off as we turned our feet in the direction of the public house. "You look like you need it."

Though I did not say so, I rather thought I did. As Holmes would so often point out to me, I am not good at keeping my emotions from showing in my face.

"Watson," said Lawler, breaking me out of my reverie. "What's Holmes up to this evening?"

I shook my head. "I am afraid I'm not at liberty to say." I did not attempt to keep the dejection from my tone.

"That bad, eh?" said Lawler.

I shrugged.

"Then I'm buying your first two."

The public house—or tavern, as the locals called it—was a squat wooden building which went by the colourful name of The Cornhusk Saloon. By the time we reached the place, I was too chilled to do more than put one foot in front of the other. The warmth and noise of the tavern was a welcome relief from the chill and howling wind outside, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind us. The air was heavy with the smells of whiskey, beer, and sweat, and a haze of cigarette smoke seemed to dim and diffuse the light of the gas lamps placed periodically on the walls. The head of a taxidermy deer adorned the wall over the bar at the front, where a bald man stood cleaning a glass. Lawler led me to a stool in front of him.

"Evening, Wilcox. Two pints of beer on me," Lawler said to the barman.

"Cash on the barrelhead," said Wilcox, wagging a finger. "No charity off me tonight."

"Come off it, I've got the money," said Lawler. He slapped a quarter on the counter.

The barman smiled and filled two glasses. "Surprised a crazy coot like you got somebody to drink with." His grin was clearly visible, despite his large, dark moustache.

"'Coot' my ass," replied Lawler. "You're nigh on three years older than me."

Wilcox laughed and shoved the mugs in our direction."So who the hell are yeh?" he asked me, not unkindly.

"Doctor Watson," I said, holding out my hand to shake.

"Dean Wilcox," he replied, shaking my hand. "You're one of those detective fellows, aren't you?"

"I am indeed," I replied, taking a swig of the beer. It was not as bad as I expected.

"How goes it?" he asked. "'Cause from the talk I've heard, it's been tougher than sticking a wet noodle up a wild cat's ass."

I gave an involuntary snort. "A colourful, and surprisingly accurate description."

"Ain't it though?" replied Wilcox with a grin.

"I'm here to keep my mind off it, to be honest," I replied.

Wilcox nodded knowingly. "This is the place to do it. Plenty more where that came from," he added, gesturing to my glass.

The tavern was quite busy, with most seats filled and voices talking over one another to be heard. It was not a large space, but large enough for the little town, it seemed.

"Is it always this busy?" I asked.

Lawler shrugged. "Not during harvest or planting, that's for sure. But it's too cold today to do much of anything, and a number of folks are still snowed into town. The railways are cleared much more quickly than dirt roads, especially when the stuff keeps coming down."

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see that the stool next to me was now occupied by none other than Jack Kelly, the oldest of William Kelly's children.

"Young Mr. Kelly!" said I. "Lawler here was just telling me that some country dwellers were marooned in town due to the weather."

"Yes, sir," the lad replied. "Me and my dad are stuck here till morning, at least."

"You don't seem all that upset about it," I said with a chuckle.

The boy grinned. "Not at all. It means I get to come to the tavern. 'Course, Dad only lets me get one drink, but that's all right."

"Bet yer boots it's all right, lad," said Mr. Kelly with a snort.

Lawler chuckled. "You don't need any more than that," said Lawler. "At your age, a drink or two can make you more comfortable, but more than that, you'll make a fool of yourself." He cast a sideways glance at Kelly. "If only your father listened to his own advice."

"Now then," said Kelly in a warning tone, "what's that supposed to mean?"

Lawler laughed. "Just that some evenings, it's a good thing your horse knows the way home."

"Shut your gob," he returned without malice, waved a hand, and turned to me. "Good to see you again, Doctor. And Jack, don't forget what Frank and Will asked you to tell the Doctor if you saw him."

"Oh, right," replied Jack, who had clearly forgotten.

Kelly nodded. "Keep him out of trouble, Lawler; I need to have a quick word with McGloin."

"Sure thing," replied Lawler.

Jack turned to me. "My brothers would love it if you'd drop by sometime so they can talk your ear off and show you some things they've collected. Mostly jars of rocks, I think, but probably also that little brown caterpillar they rescued. And Will is still in awe that a single adult in the world didn't shout at him for sneaking away from school."

I chuckled. "Well, it wasn't my place to do so, and it's my least favourite part of minding children. I shall certainly come by if I find I have a chance, but Holmes keeps me fairly busy."

"Thanks," replied Jack. "But what brings you here to the tavern?"

I took a moment to determine the phrasing of my answer. "Holmes and I have experienced a considerable setback."

Jack cringed. "You're at the tavern to keep away from it all for a bit, I reckon. Your friend's got a bit of a temper, has he?"

"Something like that," I replied. Better for the lad to believe that than to tell him a truth I still found too shocking for words: that after all this time, he still did not trust me.

"He'll come round," said Jack. "Just you wait. Even the worst of things look brighter in the morning." His face darkened, and he added more softly, "Hugh told me that once. I've never forgotten it and he's never been wrong."

Lawler spoke. "He had a wise head on his shoulders, that Deputy Hieman did."

"Anyway," said Jack. "That's enough of sad talk. I'll bet you've had some interesting times, working with Mr. Holmes. Anything that would make a good story?"

I grinned. "There are plenty I could spin into an interesting story; the trick is remembering the details well enough to only tell one at once."

Jack laughed.

"Come now," said Lawler. "There's bound to be at least one you recall well enough."

If two people wanted to hear a story, I supposed I must oblige them. Before Holmes and I left for America, I had been drafting a tale which was later published under the title "The Speckled Band," and decided to tell that one. Now, I do not mean to flaunt any little talent of mine when I say that I have a knack for storytelling, even more so aloud than on paper. Even so, I was surprised to see that as I recounted the tale to Jack and Lawler, others seated nearby ceased their own conversations to listen. By the time I was recounting how Holmes and I lay in wait in Miss Stoner's room, I had the attention of a third of those in the tavern. Their eyes widened when the snake entered the darkened bedroom and jaws dropped when I described the horrible scream Roylott made as he died in the next room. When the story was finished, I received a round of applause and two beers.

"That's some story!" said Wilcox, the barman. "I heard you were a soldier, in the Brit's Afghan campaign. Have you any stories from there?"

"Few with happy endings," I replied, taking a gulp of beer.

"Come now," said a man in glasses, whom I recognised as Johanson, a farmer I met at the inn and saw again on the train. "There must be one."

I shook my head. "No, I'm sure somebody else has a better war story than I do."

"Ah, well. Old Pattison's got one you should hear." Johanson looked around. "Is Pattison here?" he asked the fellow next to him, who shrugged. "Anybody seen Old Pattison tonight?" he repeated more loudly.

"He's in the outhouse," called a gruff voice from a few tables away. "But I've got a better story than he does." The man who had spoken made his way to the bar, and I gave him my seat, taking my drinks to a table nearby. It took me a moment, but I recognised him as Bingman, the hard-of-hearing landlord of the late Silas Albright.

"Right," he said. "I'm sure you've all heard this one before, but I can't remember telling half of you, so it doesn't count."

A few laughs arose from the men nearby, and conversations which had begun after I told my tale gradually ceased once more.

"I was nigh on forty-three when the war started, so I had to enlist four times before they let me in. But as soon as they did, they put me under this young idiot of a lieutenant, who liked to go about with his nose in the air, acting like his shit don't stink. Well, me and another fella of like mind got together one night…" Bingman went on to recall a half dozen pranks pulled on his condescending superior, culminating in the man losing his title to one of Bingman's comrades. The account was far-fetched, but I was a sheet or two to the wind too far to mind and laughed along with the others.

My watch told me it was time I left, and I said so, but several of those sitting nearby stopped me.

"You had your break; let's hear about another case," said Pattison, the postmaster, who had rejoined the group partway through Bingman's story.

I looked to Lawler, who nodded emphatically along with young Jack. It took very little to keep me from trading the uproarious energy of the tavern for silence and my grim thoughts, so I racked my brain for another story, one lighter than the Helen Stoner case. I settled on one Holmes and I had only just completed two weeks prior to leaving England, so the details were still fairly fresh in my mind. It is not a case I intend to write or publish, due to its highly unsatisfactory conclusion, but there were a few anecdotes worth telling. And tell them I did.

"Our client insisted that we come and go through the back garden," I explained, "which would have been easy enough, had the gate been unlocked at the appointed hour and a clearly angry bulldog not been roaming the yard."

"Did you go in anyhow?" asked Jack.

"I didn't, but Holmes did," I replied. "Then I was the one who had to sew the idiot's shin back together!"

There were a number of gasps and chuckles, and I realised I held the attention of over half of the patrons of the tavern.

I then told of Holmes' decision to tail someone who seemed incontrovertibly related to the case. Unfortunately, instead of catching him meeting with supposed political contacts, Holmes discovered, in a rather awkward manner, that he had a mistress in Sussex.

At that, there was gasping and roars of laughter all round, and Wilcox declared I'd earned a beer on the house.

Near the culmination of the case, I found myself sprinting down the street, attempting to stick near Holmes as he dashed through an alley, scaled a four-story building, and chased his quarry across several rooftops.

"I have no idea how that fellow got himself up there," I said. "He was…a very heavy man."

"A what man?" asked Bingman, cupping a hand to his ear.

"Built like a brick shithouse," Lawler supplied loudly.

"Something like that," I chuckled. "Anyway, this large fellow got himself onto the roof of that building and took off running. He made it across half a dozen buildings before Holmes caught up to him and tackled him. He clapped handcuffs on the fellow's wrists and looked quite proud of himself for a moment, before he realised there was no way to get back down."

"What'd you do then?" asked Jack.

"I had to call the fire brigade to find a tall enough ladder," I replied with a grin. I laughed along with my audience as I recalled Holmes' expression as he sat on that rooftop with all the people on the street stopping to stare up at him.

When the chuckles and questions died down, but before anyone could offer me another beer (I would already regret having five in an evening and did not want to risk making it six) I told them that it was well past time for me to leave.

"Aw, come on, Dr. Watson," said Jack.

"Quit your whining, son," said Kelly. "We're leaving too. Church is at eight tomorrow."

"I know," replied Jack. He turned to me. "Good seeing you again, and thanks for the stories."

"You are very welcome," I replied with a grin.

A handful of other gentlemen thanked me for coming or even shook my hand as I made my way to the door and out onto the street. I was a tad unsteady, and Lawler kindly opted to ensure I reached the inn without falling upon my face in the snow.

"That was a pleasant break from this case," I told Lawler.

"I rather thought it would be," he replied with a smile. I bid him good night and retreated to the warmth of the inn.

It sometimes seemed rare, while involved in Holmes' line of work, to come across such kind-hearted people. If nothing else, this evening served as a reminder that they were still there. There was a smile on my face as I made my way down the hall to my room. I fell asleep almost before I fell into bed.


	35. The Return of Sherlock Holmes

_**Chapter Thirty-Five**_

 **The Return of Sherlock Holmes**

It was dark when I awoke to a loud tapping noise. My side and head ached, and the noise exacerbated the latter pain, but I found myself leaping to my feet and grabbing my revolver from the nightstand, blinking away sleep and squinting through the darkness. The tapping repeated, and I whirled round to see a face at the window. My heart leapt into my throat, then I recognised Holmes. I lay the revolver back down and rushed to the window. I made to tug it open. It stuck, and I realised it was locked. Feeling like a fool, I twisted the handle to unlock it and tugged again. It still did not move.

Holmes knocked on the window again and made a horizontal gesture near the base of the window. I crouched down and saw that a thin layer of ice was preventing its opening. I snatched up a penknife and stuck the blade beneath the window, stabbing at and sliding through what ice I could reach. Then I tried once more to open the blasted thing. I yanked upward with a mighty effort, and the window sprang open. Snow and ice landed on my feet and a blast of cold wind assailed my chest and face. I held out a hand and helped Holmes clamber inside and slammed the window closed.

We stood for a moment, panting. Then Holmes gave a violent shiver. I hastened to the grate and prodded the dying coals back into action and added a couple small logs to the fire while Holmes removed his frozen outerwear and pushed two chairs nearer to the fire. A yellow flame licked the base of the smaller log, and soon both logs began to burn in earnest. Holmes moved a chair even closer to the fire, sat, and held out his hands. He shivered again. I snatched the thickest afghan at hand, draped it over his shoulders, and seated myself next to him.

"I did it," he said. His tone was flat and his voice gruff from disuse.

Though my head was throbbing, and I felt sapped of all energy, I sat quietly and waited for him to elaborate.

"Bill Brogden is going to find himself in trouble come morning, I fear," said Holmes. "I found a small bag containing a large quantity of jewellery and a note signed 'P.T.C.' I left it just inside the front door of the jail-house for Sheriff Sweet to find in the morning." A small smile played upon his weary features. "I have no doubt the boy will be prepared to confess all he knows, once faced with the prospect of spending time in a cell next to Cleaver Wright."

I nodded. "If that fails to scare him straight, an hour spent in said cell would likely do the trick."

"The unfortunate news is that, as I feared, our hard-earned evidence is nowhere to be found," Holmes continued. "There was no sign of it with Brogden, which is as I expected, and nothing at the abandoned house on the edge of town, where we found Wright. P.T.C. or Crowe, whoever he is, is intelligent enough to have done away with it by now. And there was no sign of Mrs. Blomberg's heirloom diamond necklace, so it seems that it, and however many others, have been turned to smaller gems at the hands of young Brogden." He paused a moment. "Unless Hieman got possession of it, of course. We do not yet know how much of the bounty he talked them into handing over, or where it will be found."

"But P.T.C. is counting on us finding it," I added. "Do you suppose we will?"

Holmes shrugged. "It is not my top priority, but I have not forgotten it."

"At least some of her riches have been recovered," I replied, swallowing a yawn. "Do you suppose the smaller pieces will be with Crowe, when we find him?"

Holmes nodded. "Even if there are others involved of whom we yet know nothing, and I have every reason to doubt this idea, Crowe is the ringleader. If we find him, we shall find more of Mrs. Blomberg's collection."

Despite my best efforts, I gave a wide yawn. "Sorry," I muttered.

Holmes glanced at his watch. "Well, old chap, if you start now, you ought to be able to squeeze in three hours before the sun rises."

"Are you well enough to retire to your room?" I asked.

Holmes stood. "Yes, yes, Doctor," he replied, shedding the afghan and draping it over the back of his chair. "There is nothing wrong with me that a warm fire and a few good hours of sleep can't put to rights." He strode across the room.

"Sleep well, then," I said.

"Likewise," Holmes replied and closed the door softly behind him.

He had not apologised for his earlier conduct. Though it would have surprised me if he had, I was disappointed that he had made no reference to it at all. The smallest indication that I could resume assisting with this case would have been sufficient, I mused as I returned to bed. But Holmes had succeeded tonight; I would not allow myself to lose sight of this in the midst of my sleep-addled thoughts. Many of Mrs. Blomberg's jewels had been recovered and the killer of Hugh Hieman was sitting in jail, with the ringleader ever nearer to joining him. Justice would win out, even if I could have no hand in it. I smiled at this thought and fell fast asleep.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to bright sunlight and a splitting headache. I reached for the nightstand and fumbled to pick up my watch. It was ten minutes to eight; Holmes must not have much need of me this morning. I rolled over and shielded my eyes, prepared to return to much-needed sleep, but something seemed a little off.

Perhaps it was the utter silence: I could hear no voices in the hall or nearby rooms, nor could I hear wind outside. Or perhaps it was something deeper. Whatever the cause, I could not return to sleep. Inexplicable anxiety bore down on me and I crawled out of bed to prepare for the day, adding a quick painkiller to my routine in hopes that it would render the headache bearable. In ten minutes, I was knocking at Holmes' door. There was no answer. I tried the handle: locked.

He must have gone out, then. I returned to my room to see if he had left a note to that effect, but there was none to be found. It was then that I remembered his harsh words from the previous afternoon, and my heart sank a little. Even so, I continued my search. The inn dining room was largely abandoned, but there was a fellow puffing a cigar and reading a newspaper in one corner, and the innkeeper's wife was washing tables nearer the door. Neither had seen Holmes. I felt strangely unsettled.

I donned my winter things and headed out into the cold, unsure where I was going but certain I would find Holmes. I walked for several blocks but saw no one. The distant sound of a choir drifted toward me on the wind. It was Sunday morning, I remembered. That would explain the absence of the townsfolk, but not of Holmes. Without a better direction, I turned my feet toward the sound of singing. Around the corner stood the Catholic church, a small, wooden structure with a single stained-glass window and a makeshift cross nailed to the roof. The song ceased, and as I drew near, the doors opened and parishioners poured onto the snow-covered lawn, some talking or laughing, others heading directly towards home. I searched the crowd for a familiar face. After a long moment, I spotted Lawler and waved.

Lawler waved back and rushed over to me. His expression was grim. "I'm sorry about what happened to Holmes. Is there anything I can do to help?"

My blood turned cold. "What happened? Where is he?"

Lawler's jaw dropped. "Sheriff didn't tell you? Well, there goes my last shred of faith in humanity," he growled.

"Lawler," I snapped. "What happened to Holmes?"

"He's been arrested!"


	36. Under Arrest

_**Chapter Thirty-Six**_

 **Under Arrest**

"Holmes was arrested?" I cried.

"That's what I said," replied Lawler. "Not entirely sure what for, but something about breaking and entering and framing a minor. It's the talk of the town; the Sheriff's never arrested a fella on a Sunday morning before."

I could hardly believe my ears. "They've taken him to the jail?"

Lawler nodded. "Reckon so."

"This is ridiculous!" I cried.

Lawler's lips tightened. "I'm afraid most people don't think so. It's easier to believe a pompous ass from Britain is in the wrong than a sixteen-year-old from the next town over."

"I need to go to Sac City," I said.

Lawler glanced at his watch. "You best hurry; the next train leaves in five minutes."

"Right," I replied, tugging on the brim of my hat to secure it.

"It's four blocks south from here; you can't miss it," he added. "Good luck, Doctor!"

I would have thanked him, but I was already dashing headlong for the train station. My side ached, but I did not slow, and I made it without a second to spare; the train began to move before the door was closed behind me. I sat in the frontmost seat, aware that the eyes of several others on the train were fixed on me. At least now the chugging of the train would render my heavy breathing a little less disruptive. From the Sac City station, I took the route to the jail at a rapid clip and threw the door open without knocking.

Sheriff Sweet sat at his desk, reading some document, with Marshall Reagan leaning over his shoulder. They started when I entered.

"Doctor Watson!" greeted Marshall Reagan. "Good morning to you."

Something about his friendly tone irked me, but I managed to keep my tone even. "Marshall, Sheriff, dispense with the pleasantries and tell me what in God's name is going on."

Reagan and Sweet exchanged an uneasy glance.

The Sheriff spoke. "I'm afraid your friend Holmes has found himself on the wrong side of the law."

"How?" I demanded. "Tell me what happened."

"Reagan came in early this morning and found a bag of gems and a note allegedly from Brogden's son, confessing to have held Mrs. Blomberg's gems. Well, something seemed fishy about it, and he came to me. The handwriting is clearly not Bill's, but it does look suspiciously like your friend Holmes'. Have a look." He handed me a slip of paper. The writing did look oddly like Holmes' own. He told me had left a note, but it was too ridiculous to imagine that _this_ was the note he wrote.

I shook my head and handed it back. "Holmes would never do something like that."

Reagan shook his head. "Believe what you like, Doctor, but we headed over to the Brogden's and they did see signs that someone broke in. It added up too well, so we collected Holmes before he could do any more harm."

A surge of anger welled up in me and I clenched my teeth to keep from saying all of the rude things I wanted to say. "How on earth can you be certain it was him?" I asked. "For all we know, this is something Wright's accomplice contrived to put Holmes behind bars."

Sheriff Sweet pursed his lips. "Who on earth would set up something so elaborate to put a private detective in jail?"

"I don't know," I replied with heat, "Perhaps the same person who would kill two men for a pile of jewels and work with one of this country's most infamous killers?" I shook my head. "This is preposterous; we are supposed to be on the same side."

The Sheriff gave a heavy sigh. "I wish we were."

I decided to ask the practical question for which I dreaded the answer. "How high is the cost of his bail?"

"Seven hundred dollars," the Sheriff replied. "And not one cent less."

My heart sank. Even if Holmes had brought that much money with him, which I doubted, we would have already spent a good deal of it on travel and lodgings. How on earth was I to raise such a sum?

"I'm sorry, Doctor," said Reagan. His tone was gentle. "That's just how it is."

"I understand," I replied, though I did not. I turned to the Sheriff. "How is your arm?"

"Improving," he replied, "though not fast enough for my liking."

There was silence for a long moment.

"I'd like to speak with him," I said.

The Sheriff nodded. "Go right ahead."

I stepped to the door to the cells. Reagan made to follow me in, but the Sheriff stopped him.

"Watson's all right," he said. "Leave him be."

I stepped through the door and closed it behind me.

In the farther cell, Wright lay on his cot with his hands behind his head wearing a smug smile.

"Well, well," he said. "You've come to visit your poor jailbird of a pal. How sweet."

I ignored him and turned my attention to Holmes, in the first cell. He sat rigidly upright, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

After a long moment, Holmes met my gaze, and I did not like what I saw. Sherlock Holmes, the ever-closed book never let fear or shame past his mask of self-assurance. I wanted to shout at him, tell him we would fix this yet, but I restrained myself.

"Hello, Watson," he said, and shivered. The damn fool was wearing only a light jacket.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

Holmes glanced around his cell and shivered again. "I have been better."

I lowered my voice. "Your bail is seven hundred."

Holmes nodded. "I have about two-forty in total, including the money for our passage home."

I felt a little relief; I was not certain he would have even that much. "I have a little over one-seventy," I said. "Between us, that's four hundred ten, so we need another two-ninety. I'm afraid I'll have to polish a lot of shoes."

Holmes did not smile. "We have little time."

"How am I to raise so much?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. "I do not know."

"Well," I said. "I could ask everyone we've met for five dollars. I suppose I'll start with Sweet and Reagan."

"Avoid Reagan at all costs," Holmes snapped.

"What?" I asked. "Why?"

"Who do you think planted that false note?"

I shook my head. "No, no. Why would he do such a thing? He's on our side of the law. Or—well—you know what I—"

"Recall what we know about P.T.C.," he whispered. "He's intelligent, ruthless, and skilled at theft; his presence has been unnoticed; and he has a source of intelligence close to the investigation."

I frowned, comprehension dawning. "You do not mean to insinuate..."

Holmes nodded. "That is precisely what I mean."

Wright chose this moment to join the conversation. "Lucky for me and him, you've got no proof of that and you're stuck in jail with only your blundering biographer to help you." I was near enough to Holmes' cell that the wood and metal separating the two cells prevented me from seeing the man, but his voice dripped with mockery.

"But why would a thief impersonate a man of the law?" I asked, lowering my voice further.

"I imagine he believed it to be the quickest way to track down the remaining jewels, those that Hieman acquired that night on the train."

I was still processing that Reagan, that young, ambitious upstart of a Marshall was the criminal behind all of this. "It's horrible to think," I said slowly, "but it all adds up too well."

Holmes nodded mutely.

I was all at once overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation. I looked to Holmes, the man who was always ten steps ahead, who could plan ahead or think on his feet, who never gave up on a case. "What on earth are we going to do?"

He looked away. "I do not know."


	37. A Favour Returned

_**Chapter Thirty-Seven**_

 **A Favour Returned**

Holmes shivered again, and I looked around the miserable little cell with its rough stone walls, tiny cot, and chamber pot in the corner. I unbuttoned my overcoat.

"What the deuce are you doing?" asked Holmes

"This place probably gets frigid at night, and I shall have enough to keep me busy without dealing with an ill Sherlock Holmes. Besides, I have another overcoat at the inn."

"It is far lighter than this one, is it not?" he asked. "I would rather you not catch cold yourself."

"It's warm enough," I replied and handed my coat through the bars. "Here. I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

Holmes sighed, took the coat, and cracked a rueful smile. "Oh, Watson," said he. "You may not have all the qualities of a detective, but as a friend, I must confess your merits are unparalleled."

If any words I might have said had not fled my mind, they would have stuck in my throat.

"Take care," I said at length. "I shall return as soon as I have the money."

"Very well," replied Holmes.

I thanked Sheriff Sweet and so-called Marshall Pat Crowe for their courtesy and took my leave.

I walked briskly to the station, for the next train to Wall Lake would depart in ten or fifteen minutes. I began a mental list of people from whom I might ask to borrow. There was Lawler, the Kelly's (though they appeared to have little enough to spare), Fr. Albright, and I could ask that the Blombergs reimburse Holmes and my travel and living expenses thus far. Anderson and the Hieman family might have a few dollars to spare, if I could assure them that Holmes would be able to prove Hugh's total innocence and his murder and return the money within a week or two. I wondered, though, how well-respected Holmes would be after this. For those who were at all suspicious of him, this was proof that he was no good. Others might doubt now as well. I could not help but think that must have been Crowe's intention, or at least part of it.

I reached the station and purchased a ticket. The train had pulled into the station moments before, and I climbed on board. Upon whom could I count to be willing to help Holmes? We had not yet helped the Blombergs much tangibly and only Anderson and the Hieman family partially (we had one of the killers behind bars, but not his conspirator). The train chugged out of the station and began to gather speed as I stared glumly out of the window. Who on earth had we managed to assist so far on this case?

The answer struck me like a wagon load of bricks: we had helped Miss Hallstrom.

I leaped from my seat and yanked on the nearest emergency stop rope. The train screeched to a halt and a porter dashed into the car.

"Sir, what on earth are you doing?" he blustered.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, but I need off this train," I replied, pushing past him and heading for the door.

"But sir—"

"A man's life hangs in the balance," I replied. Well, at the very least a man's livelihood did, so it was not exactly a fabrication. "Do not wait for me."

The porter stuttered something I did not quite catch, but I was already shoving the door open and dropping into the edge of a snowy field. I marched back toward Sac City as quickly as I could without filling my boots with snow.

It was far too cold to be out without an overcoat, but if things went well with Miss Hallstrom, I would be returning to Wall Lake with Holmes within an hour or two. I walked swiftly back to the station and from there to the Hallstrom home.

The parents were absent, for which I was grateful, so the maid brought me directly to Miss Hallstrom. She invited me to sit, but appeared confused and concerned.

"I must confess I am surprised to see you, and without Holmes," she said.

I nodded. "I am afraid Holmes finds himself in an awkward position and as we were able to help you out of a tight spot recently, I thought you might be willing to assist me."

"What sort of situation?" she asked. "I will do what I can, but it may not be much."

I told her in as little detail as I could justify of Holmes' decision to break into the Brogden shop and subsequent framing, though I did not say by whom, and finally the amount of the bail: seven hundred dollars.

"Holmes and I have only half that amount, but I am certain we shall be able to prove him innocent within the week and reimburse you anything you might lend. I am truly embarrassed about this whole fiasco, but I cannot act in the aid of my friend or in the pursuit of justice without right now begging for money."

The poor girl looked shocked and a little alarmed.

"Forgive me," I said. "I fear I ask too much of you."

She shook her head. "It's not that. I was recently accepted to the Normal School for their schoolteacher program this autumn and several friends and family members have gifted me money to pay my way. Between that and the money you and Mr. Holmes helped me regain, I've got over seven hundred locked in my room as we speak."

"Good heavens!" I replied. "I could not ask so much of you, even for a couple days."

"I insist," she replied. "The peace of mind you and Holmes gave me is worth more than money, and besides, it's for the pursuit of justice, as you said. Give me a moment and I shall fetch it." She sped from the room before I could object.

I sat dumbfounded. We were lucky indeed to have helped such a generous young woman.

"Here you are," said she when she returned. She laid out her pile of bills on a nearby ottoman, and they did indeed total seven hundred. She looked to me. "You know, I don't think I would have confided in Mr. Holmes were it not for your kindness."

"Sometimes I think it is my only use in his investigations," I replied.

"I'm certain that's not entirely true," she said, and began gathering up the bills. "Let us agree to say nothing to my parents. I know this is hardly proper, but at this point, propriety be damned and good luck proving Mr. Holmes innocent."

She handed me the money and I carefully placed the notes in my pocket book.

"I can never thank you enough," I began.

"Nor I you and your friend," she replied with a smile. "I believe that makes us even."

I tucked my pocketbook into a jacket pocket. "I will ensure every penny of this is returned to you."

"Let me know if there is anything else I can do to help," she replied.

"You've already done more than I could ask of anyone." She smiled again and I shook her hand.

* * *

I could hardly keep a spring out of my step as I returned to the jail. Halfway there, I realised that if I returned right away, it would narrow the field of suspected donors greatly. To shield Miss Hallstrom from scrutiny (and to fetch my overcoat), I went briefly to Wall Lake, exchanged some of the larger bills for several smaller ones, and returned on the next train.

Reagan—or Crowe, rather—was out, for which I was grateful, and the Sheriff's bushy eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his hat when I counted out seven hundred dollars on his desk.

"Well, I'll be," said Sheriff Sweet. "How'd you raise this sum so quickly?"

"Begging and borrowing," I replied. "It was more effective than I expected."

"I'd say so!" said the Sheriff. "And between you and me only, I think this says something about you and him both."

"Oh?" I thought I took his meaning, though I did not know what to say to it.

"You gave him the coat off your back and apparently skipped lunch to collect the money needed to get him out. Habitual criminals don't usually have friends like that. 'Course, Holmes isn't off the hook by any means; it's just something I'll be thinking on."

I nodded.

"Well," said the Sheriff, "I'm an honest man, so I suppose I better get your friend out." He stepped into the back room and returned a minute later with Holmes in tow, who did not seem to be worse for the wear, though his pride had undoubtedly suffered.

"Ah, Watson," he said with a flash of a smile. "It is good to see you. Sheriff Sweet, good day to you." He shook the lawman's hand.

Sheriff Sweet smiled. "Likewise to you, and good luck in your investigation."

We walked two or three blocks before Holmes spoke.

"We may be thankful indeed to have the respect of Sheriff Sweet before all this is over."

I nodded. "I suspect you are right."

Holmes frowned. "How on earth did you collect so much in a few short hours?"

"I called in a favour from Miss Hallstrom," I replied. "She gave me all seven hundred."

Holmes whistled. "Generous indeed."

"I did promise we would have it back to her in a week or two at most," I said, with a little apprehension.

"A promise we shall honour," Holmes replied. "But you undersell your role in this. Were it not for you, I would still be in that dank cell listening to the taunts and ravings of a murderer. I must thank you."

"You are welcome, as always," I replied.

We walked in silence for a block before Holmes spoke again.

"I also must…apologise for my behaviour towards you these past days, though apologising is…not my forte. I am sorry, my dear fellow."

"All is forgiven and forgotten," I replied with a smile.

Holmes' shoulders relaxed visibly. "All I have to say for myself is that I wished to keep you out of trouble."

"You might have simply said as much to me," I replied.

He nodded. "It was unprofessional at best and will not happen again."

We soon reached the station and sat upon a bench, waiting for the next train. We sat in silence a long moment, then I gave voice to a question which had been preying upon my mind since early that morning.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

I looked to Holmes, who sat with his chin sunk upon his chest, brows furrowed.

"I have been pondering that very question," said he. "I am beginning to think our best course of action is to do what Crowe wants and look for the last of the Blomberg jewellery. If we set a trap with the diamond necklace and company as bait, he is sure to come."

"First, we must find them," I replied. "Where do we begin?"

"That is the subject of my thoughts at present," he replied. "I shall—or one of us, rather—shall think of something."

I nodded, and we were lost in thought for the following minutes until the train arrived.

"Have you any ideas?" asked Holmes once we were on board the train.

I seated myself next to him. "It seems to me that either Hieman put them somewhere for safekeeping and no one has seen them since, or Crowe has already found them and is hoping to have them cut before taking to his heels."

"I suspect the former," Holmes replied.

"As do I," I agreed. "We shall have to return to the Hieman household and scour every inch of the place."

"And hope they can remember anything which may have been moved from their house or given away in which Hugh may have stored them."

I frowned. "The more I think about it, finding them seems a bit of a long shot."

"And yet," Holmes replied, "it is our surest hope."


	38. Searching High and Low

_**Chapter Thirty-Eight**_

 **Searching High and Low**

When the train arrived at Wall Lake, we set off immediately for the Hieman's. Mrs. Hieman greeted us warmly enough, though the way the corners of her mouth turned down every time Holmes spoke made me suspect she had heard of his morning spent in jail.

"By all means, look around," said she. "I'll warn you, though, we've cleaned fairly well, and nothing has turned up."

"Nevertheless," Holmes replied, "we shall look again."

"You came at an opportune enough time," she said. "The children are visiting cousins and won't be underfoot."

"Excellent," replied Holmes. "Is there anything to which your son would have had access that has since been moved out or given away?"

"Most of his clothes I kept for the younger ones to grow into, except for his shoes. He had enormous feet and I highly doubt any of the others will grow into them, and on top of that, I tend to give them new shoes at Christmas anyhow. So I gave them to Fr. Albright with a few shirts and pants and belts for folks that need them more than we do."

Holmes nodded. "Can you think of anything else?"

She frowned and shook her head. "It's not been overly long, I know I ought to remember, but those aren't the memories that have stuck with me."

"I understand," Holmes replied.

I spoke up. "Your son was quite close to Ernest Anderson and the Kelly boys, I understand. Is it possible you gave anything to them?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes, of course I did! Hugh had purchased a fine leather pocketbook to give Ernie for his birthday, a couple weeks ago now, and he had a couple jars of pretty rocks he intended to give to the Kelly's. I delivered both a few weeks ago." Then her eyes grew distant and for a moment, I thought she might cry. "Everything else, I haven't been able to part with."

"Thank you so very much," I said. It appeared Holmes was too engrossed in the kitchen floor boards to reply. "I believe we shall look around for a while and if we don't find anything, we'll talk to Fr. Albright, young Anderson, and the Kelly's to see what we learn."

Mrs. Hieman nodded mutely. She had turned a rather pale grey.

"Perhaps you should sit down a minute," said I, gently taking her arm and guiding her to a chair in the parlour. She sat down and I saw that her hands were shaking. "I can get you a bit of brandy, if you'd like."

She nodded. "That would be good, thank you."

I had seen the bottle in the kitchen adjacent, and it did not take long to find a glass. In a minute or less, I returned to the unfortunate woman's side and handed it to her.

"I don't understand why this happened," she said, taking a gulp of the drink.

"From what Holmes and I have discerned," I replied gently, "he was doing everything he could to keep those scoundrels from making off with stolen jewellery. But they found him out."

She shook her head violently. "That woman's jewellery is worth far less than my son's life."

"I know," I replied. "I am very sorry for your loss and I truly wish there was something Holmes or I could do to change what happened."

She nodded, lips pressed together firmly. A tear rolled down one cheek. I wished I could take this tragedy from her, but trapping Crowe and proving him as the second criminal was the only thing Holmes or I could do.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Hieman thickly.

"I do not deserve your thanks," I replied. "We have done little enough for you."

"You have done all you can do," she replied. "I can ask no more."

After a few hours, Holmes was satisfied that the remaining jewels were not in the Hieman house. We agreed to divide the next tasks between us, Holmes to Anderson and the Kelly's and I to Fr. Albright. After a quick late lunch at the inn, he headed for the edge of town and I for the house next to the Catholic church. I knocked at the door.

"Doctor Watson!" Fr. Albright greeted me with surprise. "What brings you here?" he asked as he let me inside.

It was a humble little place, tidy but not pristine, with knick-knacks and faded photographs and drawings adorning every wall and shelf, many depicting Jesus or the saints, but a few others were of people and places I did not recognise.

"I learned that Mrs. Hieman donated some of her late son's clothing and I was wondering if I might have a look at it."

"Certainly," the priest replied and led me through the parlour to a little closet half full of various used clothing. "I may not remember for sure which things were his, but I'll do my best." He began to look through the inventory while I watched and waited.

"By the way, Doctor," said Albright. "I don't mean to be a gossip, but is it true Mr. Holmes was arrested this morning?" He looked up from the pair of denim trousers in his hands and quirked a bushy ginger brow at me.

"I'm afraid so," I replied. "It was a misunderstanding, of course, but the Sheriff insisted I pay the bail. I scraped enough together, but only just."

"Best hope you can prove Mr. Holmes innocent before you get the innkeeper's bill," said Albright with a dark laugh.

"I quite agree," I replied, thinking of Miss Lena Hallstrom and her education money.

"Ah, here we are," said Albright at length, laying out three pairs of trousers, two pairs of shoes, and two shirts. Though I examined every inch of cotton, denim, and leather, they were only clothes and I could find no trace of a clue.

"Keep these separate, for now," I said. "I've found nothing, but I shall bring Holmes to look them over as soon as he is able, should it prove necessary."

"Certainly," replied Fr. Albright. "Good luck to you, Doctor." He ushered me to the door. "And keep Mr. Holmes out of trouble, eh?"

I chuckled. "That can be a tall order, but I do my best."


	39. A Long-Awaited Discovery

_**Chapter Thirty-Nine**_

 **A Long-Awaited Discovery**

I decided to start toward the Kelly's, in case Holmes took longer searching Anderson's things than I had with Fr. Albright. When I arrived at the little home, Holmes was already there, but had only just arrived.

"No luck with Fr. Albright?" said Holmes.

I shook my head. "Nothing I could tell, anyway. You might see something I did not."

"Perhaps," Holmes replied. "I had as much luck with young Anderson. I've explained the situation to Mrs. Kelly, and the children are fetching all the little things he has given them. I intended to look through their room myself, but it would not do to turn down such eager help."

Mrs. Kelly chuckled. "The little ones are just excited you're here."

I stood at an angle where I could not see down the hall, but I could hear young voices whispering, raised a little as if in argument. Light footsteps followed a moment later, followed by a crash.

Gasps were audible down the hall. Mrs. Kelly swore under her breath and bustled toward them. Holmes and I followed more slowly. The sight that met my eyes caused me to gasp as the children had.

Broken glass and small stones littered the hall, and among them were a number of much more beautiful objects: a diamond necklace and earrings, and two bracelets.

The moment of shocked silence gave way to argument.

"Dang it, Frank!"

"I didn't mean to."

"It's Jack's fault, anyway."

"Frank's the one who dropped it!"

"But Jack told him he could carry it!"

"I didn't mean to!"

"But I could've carried it instead."

"Dad's gonna be so angry 'bout this mess!"

"I didn't mean to at all!

"Children, quiet down!" hollered Mrs. Kelly. "We'll get this cleaned up."

"Mr. Detective," said Frank, the youngest child. "There's some shiny things in here that aren't mine."

"Ours," corrected Will.

"Ours," repeated Frank. "Is it what you were detective-ing to find?"

I looked to Holmes, grins spreading quickly across both our faces.

"Yes," said Holmes. "It was."

Jack and I assisted Mrs. Kelly in cleaning up all the broken bits of glass while Holmes examined the contents of the second jar in a more methodical and less messy way. It proved to contain several others of Mrs. Blomberg's collection, though nothing as fine as the diamond necklace, the most expensive piece of the lot. At last the pieces were beginning to fall together. I could scarcely believe our luck.

"I can't believe they were there this whole time," said Jack. "I mean, we could've found them a couple days after he died. We were all just too sad to go through them, I suppose."

"Perhaps it is fortunate that you did not," Holmes replied. "Rumours of his guilt in regard to the Blomberg theft would have been far more severe."

Jack frowned. "But how did he end up with these in the first place?"

"In his process of attempting to uphold the law," I replied.

"Should have known," replied Jack.

Mrs. Kelly sighed. "That mess is cleaned up now. I'm happy we managed to help you, in a roundabout fashion."

Holmes turned to her. "You and your family have been most helpful. Now we must prepare to set a trap for our thief with this jewellery."

Mrs. Kelly's eyes lit up. "You will lay a trap for him? That is exciting. You're welcome to any help we can offer."

"We may yet take you up on that offer," I replied.

"We shall," said Holmes. "Might we lay our trap in your barn?"

"Well, my husband has ultimate say on all things in there, but I can't imagine him turning you down. He's out there now, so go ahead and ask him."

"Thank you," Holmes replied.

Jack looked to his mother.

"No," she said firmly.

"Mom, I'm fourteen years old. I want to help," he insisted. He looked to Holmes and me.

Holmes and I exchanged a glance.

"I intend to recruit Lawler and the Sheriff as well. There would be enough of us to keep Jack out of harm's way."

Mrs. Kelly pursed her lips and shook her head. "Fine. You can help. But you be on your best behaviour or you're emptying chamber pots for a month. Clear?"

"Yes!" Jack replied. "Thank you so much!"

Mr. Kelly took as little convincing as his son, so flattered was he by the prospect of his humble barn being utilised in the pursuit of justice. He helped us to pick out places where six men might conceal themselves without too much difficulty, and we left him cleaning those areas of the barn with renewed vigour.

"I imagine Lawler will be willing enough to help," I said to Holmes as we walked back to town, "but I am less certain about the Sheriff."

Holmes nodded. "That is why I want you to speak with the Sheriff. He has a far higher opinion of you than of me—though, until we capture Crowe, I imagine most people will."

"What should I say to convince him?" I asked.

"The truth," Holmes replied. "Or rather, most of it. Omit that we believe P.T.C. and Reagan to be one and the same, and thus also that I was framed. But ensure Reagan knows enough to take the bait."

I nodded. "I shall see what I can do."

* * *

"…The Kelly's have the necklace and a couple other pieces now and Holmes means to set a trap for the other man by using them," I concluded.

The Sheriff leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Well, I'll be." He shook his head.

"Will you help us catch P.T.C.?"

"'Course I will, son," said he.

"Excellent," I could not help but grin at the news. "We shouldn't need Reagan," I added quickly. "But Des Moines probably wouldn't be too pleased if you left him out of the loop. Tell him before this evening that you heard a rumour about the necklace being in the Kelly's barn, but will wait till morning to test its validity. Then come to Wall lake as quickly as possible."

The Sheriff frowned. I cursed inwardly. Perhaps this would not be as easy as I'd hoped.

"Doctor," said the Sheriff, lighting a cigar. "I may be old, but I ain't stupid. There's something you and Mr. Holmes aren't telling me and I'm not going to do anything if I'm half in the dark about it."

What was I supposed to do now? I had followed Holmes' instructions to the letter; he had not told me what to do if this occurred.

"I am sorry," I said. "I am not at liberty to say more at this time."

"Tell me one thing," said the Sheriff, wincing and stretching his injured arm.

"I can make no promises," I replied uneasily.

He lowered his voice. "It is Reagan you suspect, is it not?" He quirked a bushy brow and took a long drag on his cigar.

I stepped back in surprise. "Yes, it is."

The Sheriff nodded. "I've had my suspicions about him. He knows a good deal of law, but not as much as I'd expect of a detective out of Des Moines, even the greenest of the lot. He was a jumpy devil when he first arrived, and some of those words and phrases he'd use…well, I felt silly for thinking of it, but now I know my suspicions were warranted."

"I'm glad to hear it," I replied.

The Sheriff frowned.

"Holmes may be a master at it," I said, "but I dislike keeping information from people about as much as they dislike it being withheld from them."

He puffed on his cigar and smiled. "You're a good man, Doctor Watson. I'll do everything you said and I'll see you tonight at six at the Kelly farm."

"Excellent," I replied. "We shall be glad to have you there."

Sheriff Sweet laughed. "This'll be the most exciting thing that's happened in this county since that stagecoach robbery in '68. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

When I met again with Holmes at the Wall Lake Inn, I learned he had been successful as well.

"Lawler agreed in a heartbeat," said Holmes. "He is quite excited to be a part of it."

"We can only hope he's as handy with a revolver as he is with a wrench," I replied with a chuckle.

By now it was half-past four, and by some miracle, I convinced Holmes to accompany me to an early dinner. He was too near the end of the case to eat much of anything, but then again, so was I. We returned to Holmes' room for a brief spell, each of us lost in thought and anticipation. At a quarter past five, Holmes roused himself and turned to me.

"Watson," he said, and I was a little startled to see his expression was troubled.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I fear Crowe will make a dangerous opponent," he said.

"We have faced many desperate and dangerous adversaries before," I replied. "We ought to be prepared well enough for this."

"Perhaps I should not be so concerned," said Holmes, "but I am not easy in my mind about tonight." He shook his head. "I hope you are right, old fellow."


	40. Lying in Wait

_**Chapter Forty**_

 **Lying in Wait**

The appointed hour loomed ever nearer, and soon enough Holmes and I took our leave and began our walk to the Kelly's. We had made it perhaps halfway when Lawler approached from behind us in a wagon.

"Care for a ride, gentlemen?" he asked.

We readily agreed; the air was bitter and drifts of snow snaked across the frozen dirt road as the wind picked up and began to howl. Clouds masked the moon and stars. I was glad for the bright lamp attached to Lawler's carriage, for though the night was cold, at least it was not so dark. Soon we arrived at the Kelly's, all grateful for the warmth afforded by their small kitchen fire. Holmes, Lawler, and I were the last to arrive, for William Kelly and Jack were there and the Sheriff had come some minutes before. The house was not large enough for such a gathering—even with all of us standing, we did not all fit in the kitchen—but no one said a word about it.

It was clear Mrs. Kelly had been in vain attempting to convince the three younger children to go to bed, but they were far too excited about what was happening and their energetic discussion lent a little levity to the situation until their mother dragged them to their room and demanded that they stay put even if they do not sleep.

Little Frank called to us as his mother escorted him to bed. "Good luck, Mr. Detective! Catch the bad fellas real good."

Holmes smiled at the child's words, but a moment later his expression was once again solemn.

"What exactly is your plan tonight?" asked Mrs. Kelly when she returned.

"Reagan—or rather, Pat Crowe—thinks the necklace is in your barn," said the Sheriff.

"There's enough room for all of us to wait unseen in there," said Kelly. "Not you, though, Mary."

"I'll be ready at the front door, and if he even tries to come in here, I'll give him a face full of buckshot."

Kelly winked at her. "That's my girl."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"Nobody shoot to kill intentionally," said the Sheriff. "We need to bring this basta—excuse me, Mrs. Kelly—the son-of-a-gun to trial. I want to know how and why he cooked up this crazy scheme."

"And if Mrs. Blomberg's brother was at all involved," added Holmes.

There was one thing worrying me which no one had yet voiced. "Sheriff, would Crowe have access to a key to get Wright out of his cell?"

Sheriff Sweet's expression darkened. "I gave him one weeks ago and could not take it away now without arousing his suspicions."

Holmes broke in. "It is likely we shall be six against two. It was for that reason that I wanted so many of us at hand. I am afraid we have a long and cold vigil ahead of us as we do not know when Crowe and Wright will come."

"Well," said Lawler, "The last train they could take from here to Sac City and still make the line to Chicago leaves at a quarter to eight. I suspect they will want to snatch the last of the jewellery in time to make that train."

"Very likely," Holmes replied. "Though they could always arrive sooner; it is quite dark out already. Come; if everyone has suitably warmed themselves, let us make our way to the barn."

I was not ready to leave the warmth of the kitchen; I had only just finished thawing my toes. For a moment, I considered leaving my doctor's bag in the house, but I decided against it. As much as I hoped I would have no need of it, I knew I would feel safer if it was near at hand, and I supposed the barn would be warm enough that none of its contents would freeze.

I made to follow the others outside, but Mrs. Kelly stopped me on the doorstep. "Best of luck to you all and I'll make up some warming drinks if you'd like, once it's all over."

"I suspect we shall take you up on that offer," I replied. "Thank you."

The Kelly's barn was, like their house, just large enough for its intended purpose. Kelly held a lamp aloft and showed us around the little building. There was a hay loft above, stalls for three cows (only two of which were occupied currently) stalls and troughs for half a dozen pigs, and a variety of tools for planting, harvesting, gardening, and everything in between. A skittish cat or two also resided there, and the family's horse and carriage were kept near the back.

"We ought to keep the necklace and such near the barn door, I'd say," said Kelly. "So we can see them but they can't see us."

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "I believe that basket will serve our purpose best." He pointed to one near the tools.

"Sure," replied Kelly, retrieving it. He placed it in the front corner nearest the small door (to the right of the barn's main door) and took the jewels from a pocket of his denim overalls into the basket.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack grin at the thought of Mrs. Blomberg's precious gems in this humble wire basket. It would be a fairly obvious place to look, but not obvious enough for a trap to be suspected.

Holmes rubbed his hands together with excitement or perhaps due to the cold. "Excellent. The moment they find the necklace, we'll have eyewitness proof it was their reason for breaking into the barn. So the moment one or the other picks something up is our moment to strike. Mr. Kelly, be prepared to light your lantern when that moment comes."

"Right," said Kelly, "as for hiding places, who's the most nimble of us besides Jack here?"

"Probably Holmes," I replied.

Holmes shrugged. "I am agile enough for my profession."

"You and Jack can hide in the loft," said Kelly. "As for the rest of us, there's two empty stalls and room for two behind the carriage. I think that ought to keep us out of sight long enough."

"I can take a stall," said Sheriff Sweet. "I grew up on a farm; the smell's nothing new to me."

"Still, I'll take the one by the hogs," said Kelly.

"Cow stall it is," replied the Sheriff."

Lawler turned to me. "Guess we're the lucky ones behind the carriage."

"Wouldn't say it's that lucky," replied Kelly with a grimace. "There's not much room back there. But you fellas are the skinniest of the lot, save maybe Holmes or Jack."

Holmes glanced at his watch. "A quarter past six. A train from Sac City to Wall Lake arrived five minutes ago. If they aim to run early, Crowe and Wright are on it. We best take our positions and put out that lamp."

Soon Lawler and I were sitting in the small space between the carriage and the wall. I set my doctor's bag between us, hoping I would not have need of it tonight. A cold draft wafted through cracks in the boards and I could neither see nor hear any of the others. I do not know how long we waited in this way, but it was one of the most uncomfortable vigils I can recall. I was cold and stiff, and the thick scents of hay and livestock assaulted my senses with each breath while anticipation made my heart hammer with unceasing rapidity, exacerbating the dull pain in my chest. Lawler's quick breaths told me that he was in the same state of dreadful excitement.

After the long, indeterminable period, I heard a quiet squeaking noise as the smaller door opened ever so slowly and a dim light shone before two dark figures, stepping softly into the barn, accompanied by a dull tapping noise. In the near-silence, their whispers carried across the barn. I peered around the carriage.

"They likely left the goods nice 'n handy!" said one, who I was fairly certain to be Crowe. The light began to shake a little.

"Calm yourself, Kid," said Wright, through gritted teeth. He was walking with a stick, I realised; hence the tapping noise. "You're giving me a headache." The light steadied, presumably due to Wright grabbing the lamp.

"I told you to quit calling me that," Crowe hissed.

"Yeah, well I've been sitting in a jail cell for two full days. I can call you 'jackass' all the livelong day and be pretty damn justified. Besides, something doesn't seem right here."

Did they suspect a trap? I shrunk as far as I could back into the complete darkness behind the carriage and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

"Just shut your trap and look around," Crowe returned. "Besides, if it wasn't for me, you'd still be in jail."

Wright muttered something indistinguishable, and the only sound was the footsteps of our adversaries and the occasional noises from the cows or pigs.

"Hey Crowe!" came Wright's voice. "They put the stuff in an egg basket."

The Sheriff sprang from his hiding place, shouting, "Halt in the name of the law!"

Several shots rang out, someone swore loudly, and the barn was plunged into darkness.

Silence fell. Lawler and I crept out of our hiding place and I stepped toward the front of the barn. I heard a shuffling noise near where Crowe had been a moment earlier and made for it, tackling him and knocking a gun out of his hand. As we hit the ground, I heard a yell and crash beside me and felt a stinging pain in my side.

A moment later, the barn was bathed once more in yellow light. Holmes held a lantern aloft several paces away. Nearer to hand, a frustrated Kelly was cursing his own lamp, which had not lit properly during the fracas.

I looked down to see Wright unconscious beneath me with his knife caught in my clothing.

"He's escaping!" Kelly shouted angrily from behind me. "What're we waiting for?"

"Mr. Kelly," said Holmes. "Watson and I must borrow your horses."

"I've got two horses here as well," said Lawler. "And Wright's must still be outside."

I sat up and carefully unbuttoned enough layers to see that the wound was long and shallow; it was not serious, but it was a good deal bloodier than it might have been. I hurried back to my doctor's bag and bandaged my wound while Holmes surveyed the barn.

"Nice tackle," the Sheriff groaned. I glanced up to see that Jack, face bright red, was hauling the lawman to his feet.

"I'm so sorry! I thought you were Crowe," said Jack.

"Watson, there is blood on this knife," said Holmes.

"Just nicked me a bit, that's all," I called. "I won't be a moment."

I quickly finished the job by wrapping bandaging around my entire chest to keep the rest in place and buttoned my torn shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and overcoat. The layers were likely the only thing that kept Wright from striking any deeper.

Kelly quickly saddled his two horses and Jack guided Wright's horse inside the barn.

"You two have helped enough," said the Sheriff to the Kelly's, once they had finished. "Many thanks."

"We've only got the three saddles," said Lawler.

"You fellas go on," said the Sheriff. "I'm not so agile anymore."

Kelly opened the large door of the barn as Holmes, Lawler, and I mounted our horses and we rode off into the night.


	41. Chasing Down a Train

_**Chapter Forty-One**_

 **Chasing Down a Train**

Holmes and Lawler were each off like a shot, but my poor beast was frightened and not keen on keeping up with the others. I watched in dismay as Holmes continued to out-pace me and Lawler passed me. I tried urging the creature faster, but to my increasing frustration, it would not. I could only hope the other two could capture Crowe without me.

I reached the edge of Wall Lake and headed for the train station. As I slowed my horse to a halt, I saw Holmes jogging toward me.

"What on earth are you doing?" I asked. "Is Crowe not on that train?"

"He is, but you are not," Holmes replied.

I dismounted and led the horse to the stable boy. "I'd better fix that, then," I said. "What of Lawler?"

"Already on board," said Holmes.

The train whistle shrieked, and the locomotive began to chug slowly down the line.

"It's not due to leave for six minutes!" Holmes cried.

"Crowe," I growled.

"Take Lawler's horse!" Holmes shouted over the noise of the train.

There was no time to explain things to the poor stable boy, so we dashed into the stable and retrieved the horses. I tossed him a dime, hoping it would keep him from blocking our progress.

"Du bist verrückt! Die pferde!" he cried.

The wound in my side stung more than a little as I mounted and rushed toward the train. It had only a small head start, but we were barely gaining ground and soon it would reach speeds the horses could not match. We careened forward at a dangerous pace, Holmes mere feet in front of me, until we reached the last car of the train. It was a caboose with a little deck, metal safety rails surrounding the area. Holmes grabbed the rail, his horse keeping perfect pace with the train, and he swung himself up and into the car. His horse fell behind, and I urged mine closer to the train. The whistle sounded shrilly as the train continued to accelerate. Why wasn't Lawler pulling the emergency brake?

With a great effort, my horse gained several yards on the train, but it was not quite close enough. It was matching pace now, but that was about all it could do, and the locomotive was still picking up speed. I urged the poor beast a little closer, but the observation deck railing was still too far for me to reach the top of the bars.

"Give me your arms!" Holmes shouted over the roar of the train.

I stretched my left hand upwards and Holmes grabbed my forearm. I swallowed hard; I was not certain Holmes could lift my weight.

"Quickly!" he yelled.

I took a deep breath, let go of the reins, and grabbed Holmes' other arm. With a lurch, I realised my feet had nowhere to rest and I struggled to pull them up to the deck so I would not lose them under the train. My old war wound and injured side seared with pain and I could feel my arms slipping out of Holmes'.

With a sudden effort, my friend wrenched me up and over the bar and we collapsed on the floor of the observation car as the horses' forms retreated into the distance.

"Thank you," I gasped.

Holmes gave a nod in response and rose to his feet. I did likewise, my shoulder and side aching and burning, respectively.

"You have your revolver?" Holmes asked.

I nodded and pulled it from my coat pocket, glad it had not been jostled out during our journey. "And you your pistol?"

"I should hope so," he replied, holding it aloft.

"Crowe will likely be somewhere near the front of the train," I said, "assuming he has taken it hostage."

"He could be anywhere on the train," Holmes replied. "But it would seem he wanted the train to leave early and urged them to drive as quickly as possible."

"Time is short, then," I said.

Holmes nodded. "Come, but let us move stealthily, lest Crowe sink to shooting at us in an occupied passenger car." He tested the door to the inside of the train. It was locked. I made to retrieve the small lock pick I keep in the handkerchief in my sleeve, but Holmes was already rummaging through his own set of lock picks. He selected one and was about to begin his work when the door swung open from inside, courtesy of our friend Lawler.

I was about to thank him, but the words died on my lips when I saw that he had clearly been beaten, tied, and thrown back here.

"What happened?" I asked after removing the handkerchief tied round his mouth and set to help Holmes untie the ropes binding his hands and feet.

"When I boarded, Crowe was speaking with the conductor, and asked if he could have a word with me in back. I saw the pistol in his hip holster and made to draw on him, but my revolver wasn't there. Must've fallen from my pocket en route and I didn't notice. He dragged me back here, laughed at me, and punched me in the face," Lawler spat.

"Did any of the passengers notice this?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, yes," Lawler replied. "Crowe told them I was the Blomberg jewel thief, and that Holmes was trying to ensure I got away with it."

"The bloody scoundrel!" I exclaimed. I looked to Holmes, hoping he would say what we ought to do first, but he stood silently, lips pursed. I helped Lawler to his feet.

"Watson," said Holmes.

"I am all ears," I replied.

"You must convince the people on this train to take our side and expose Crowe as the liar and thief that he is."

"Me?" I asked, startled and a little horrified.

Holmes nodded. "Lawler and I have been thoroughly discredited," said he. "If either of us enter the passenger car now, some might be liable to shoot first and ask questions later. But you, Watson, have nothing save your association with me to incriminate you."

Lawler broke in. "Folks around here can't help but like you. They'll listen."

"But what do I say?"

"Tell them the truth," said Holmes. "We have fifteen minutes before we reach Sac City and may lose Crowe forever." He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket and clapped them into my hand.

I slipped them in my own pocket, stomach churning. I felt like an actor who heard his cue but had forgotten every one of his lines. I couldn't do this.

"Quickly, Watson," said Holmes.

"Good luck," said Lawler, clapping me on the back.

I was certain I would need it.


	42. Our Final Chance

_**Chapter Forty-Two**_

 **Our Final Chance**

Without looking back at Holmes or Lawler, I opened the door leading from the observation car to the back passenger carriage and slipped through. It was warmer and brighter, and it took my senses a moment to adjust.

"Doctor Watson?" said a voice to my left.

I looked over, blinking my eyes into focus, and saw Wilcox, the bartender, peering curiously up at me.

"Hello, Wilcox," I replied. "How are you?"

"Fairly well," he said, though his eyebrows remained low over his eyes and the frown did not leave his face.

I looked round and saw Johansen, the bespectacled farmer, sitting to my right and greeted him as well.

"What brings you here?" I asked.

"Off to visit my niece in Sioux Rapids," said he, adjusting his glasses and squinting at me.

"Sounds quite lovely," I replied.

"Certainly," said he. "But what brings _you_ here? I don't recall you boarding."

"It's an interesting story, and I'll get to that part before the end," I said, before really deciding to say anything.

Then it hit me: I had to tell a story. A true story, but a story nonetheless. That I could do.

"Well," said Wilcox. "You've got thirteen minutes."

The train shook and I grabbed the back of Wilcox's seat for support. I stood up straighter and raised my voice so the dozen-odd people in this car could not fail to hear me.

"When Holmes first received word of the troubles around here, he had several other requests he might have taken instead, but he chose to come here. And once he arrived, he has worked as diligently—if not more so—as he has on every other case on which I have accompanied him. I know all of you on this train have only known Holmes for a couple short weeks, and during that time, he made mistakes, as anyone investigating something so complex would make mistakes. And I know he is not always a likable person, but he came to help. He came because he wants to see justice carried out everywhere, not only in large cities. I trust Sherlock Holmes. I have trusted him with my life and will do so again without hesitation, because for all his faults, he is a good man."

All eyes in the car were on me now. I took a deep breath and continued.

"I do not know if you are aware, but we have a serious problem on our train this evening. There is a man on board who worked closely with Jesse Cleveland Wright and is about to get away with every atrocity and injustice he has wrought."

"You are mistaken. Lawler has been tied securely and put in the back," protested a spectacled man near the front, whom I recognised as Dr. Mauer.

"Lawler is not the one of whom I speak," I replied. "This evening, Holmes and I worked with Sheriff Sweet to set a trap for Wright's accomplice. From a number of clues, we knew he was close to the investigation, completely unsuspected, went by the initials P.T.C., and according to Wright himself, his name was Pat Crowe. We set a trap for Crowe, using the last of the recoverable Blomberg jewels as bait, strongly suspecting the name by which all of us know Crowe, but we did not know for certain nor were we certain he would take the bait. Nonetheless, he came."

I paused for a moment, the wound in my side making it difficult to stand on shaky ground for so long.

"We heard footsteps approaching and then quiet voices. These were not the sounds of one man, but two."

Wilcox spoke up. "What the hell kinda turncoat would want to help him?"

"Only someone who was helping him all along: Cleaver Wright." I replied. "I am sure you are all wondering how Crowe could have possibly gotten Wright out of jail."

There were nods and frowns.

"I'll invite you to take a moment to think about it," I said. "We know that this person is close to the investigation, could have broken out a prisoner, and tonight, framed not one, but two men for crimes they did not commit." I let the silence stretch for a long moment, as realisation and horror dawned on the faces of my audience.

"My friends, this train did not leave six minutes early to ensure Lawler was put quickly in jail. It left six minutes early because Holmes and I were not yet on board. Sheriff Sweet was wounded tonight—not badly, he shall be fine in days—but because of this, Holmes and I were the only ones who could put these," I pulled the handcuffs out of my pocket and held them aloft, "on Patrick Crowe".

The train was deathly silent.

"I know none of you have known me very long or very well, but I am an honest man, and would readily swear everything I've said on the Bible or my mother's grave." I looked around the car and noticed several new faces. They must have come from the other passenger car. I recognised one as Mrs. Pattison, the post office woman. She began to clap. Several others joined, but the rest were stoic.

"I am hardly in a position to ask your trust, but if you do not trust me, we will let a terrible man go free. I don't want that on my conscience."

There was a general murmurer of ascent, and a man whom I did not know, but had seen at the tavern, spoke.

"So what you're saying is that Mr. Reagan is a fraud and a cheat and will escape if we do nothing?"

I nodded.

The young man looked at those sitting near him. "Well, I'm with Doc Watson. Worst that can happen is we embarrass Reagan and have to apologise later. That beats the hell outta letting a guilty man go free."

There were various nods and murmurs, but several frowned or shook their heads.

One man spoke up, and I recognised him as a farmer with whom I had lunched. "If, as you'd have us believe, Reagan had the train leave early so you and Mr. Holmes wouldn't be on it, how on earth did you get on board?"

"I have Lawler's swift horse and Holmes' strong arms to thank," I said.

"Holmes is on board too?" the farmer asked.

Well, they seemed unlikely to lynch him at this point and truthfulness did seem to be the best policy here. "Yes, he is," I said.

"Then why have we not seen him?" asked another.

"Because he knew all of you had every reason to doubt him, but not me," I said. The words had barely left my lips when several people gasped, staring at something behind me. I whirled round.

Sherlock Holmes stood at the back of the compartment.


	43. Behind Bars At Last

_**Chapter Forty-Three**_

 **Behind Bars At Last**

Holmes stepped forward and joined me in the middle of the compartment. "Perhaps you are beginning to wonder why the man we know as Reagan went to such lengths to discredit myself and Lawler, but never Watson. The answer is a simple one. Like many others, he saw the Doctor as my kind but bumbling chronicler and assistant, nothing more. But he was wrong. And if it were not for the good Doctor, we would not have this opportunity to bring Pat Crowe to justice." His eyes bore into all those sitting on the train. "Will you help us accomplish this?"

There were various shouts of "yes" and "aye" and a "you betcha" or two.

Holmes smiled. "Good. In a moment, I shall need one or more of you to call loudly for Reagan."

Pattison, the post office woman, raised her hand.

"Thank you," said Holmes.

She saluted.

"I shall stand ready to disarm him," Holmes continued, "and Watson will put the cuffs on." He gestured for me to follow and we stood on either side of the doorway leading to the car ahead, backs to the wall. He then nodded, and whispered, "Call for him now!"

Pattison and a handful of others shouted variants of "Reagan!" and "Marshall, help!"

A moment later, Crowe dashed in, pistol in hand. With a swift knock to Reagan's arm, the pistol clattered to the floor and a moment later Holmes pulled his hands behind his back and I slipped the cuffs round his wrists and locked them in place with a little "snick".

Crowe stood in stunned silence, then looked to those surrounding him. "Are you out of your minds? Why have you let them do this to me?"

"Tell me," said Wilcox, raising his voice. "What does the 'T' stand for in your name, Mr. Crowe?"

Pattison reached into his coat pocket and extracted the diamond necklace. It sparkled in the light and many gasped. "What good will Mrs. Blomberg's pretty necklace do you when you're hanging by your neck from a rope?"

Holmes held out his hand and took the necklace while I extracted the rest of the jewellery from Crowe's pocket and handed it to him as well.

"I never killed a soul!" Crowe protested. "Thieving, that's my middle name, but I never did kill a man." He began to shiver and shake.

"That shall be decided in court," Holmes replied.

Just then, the train pulled into the station, and chugged loudly to a stop.

Faster than my eyes could process, the handcuffs clattered to the floor and Crowe was bolting toward the front of the train.

Holmes swore and ran behind him; I snatched up the handcuffs and followed. I'd taken Crowe's gun, but could not be certain he did not have another. We leapt off the train and into the station. Crowe sprinted full speed ahead. I fired a warning shot, but he only ran faster. I slowed involuntarily, too exhausted and pained for any more physical activity, but I had to keep up with them. Just then, a figure sprinted past me: Lawler, I realised, who with surprising speed and ease overtook me, Holmes, and finally Crowe, whom he brought to the ground with a magnificent tackle. I threw the cuffs to Holmes and he secured them firmly.

"You've quite a pair of legs under you," I said to Lawler as he and Holmes dragged Crowe, groaning, to his feet.

He smiled and shrugged, panting lightly.

I continued walking toward them. "I must not have tightened the handcuffs well enough. Sorry, Holmes."

Holmes shook his head. "Don't worry about it, my dear fellow," said he. "We have got him now."

"I suppose I shall only hold the handcuffs metaphorically from now on," I said with a grin.

Holmes laughed. "Ha! Or I could teach you the proper technique."

"Or that," I conceded. I glanced back toward the train and saw that a small crowd had gathered. "We have him now," I informed them. "Thank you all very much for your part in his capture."

There were various nods, cheers, and scattered clapping, and then the people of Sac County slowly dispersed.

I turned to Holmes. "What next?"

"Well," said Holmes. "We are conveniently close to the jail. If you would relieve Crowe of his keys to it, Watson, I believe at long last, we can put him where he belongs."

"Indeed we can and shall!" said Lawler with a grin.

Holmes tightened his grip on Crowe's left arm, Lawler secured his right, and I followed them to the jail, my revolver at the ready in case Crowe had any wild ideas before we reached the place. He did not; he walked slowly and sullenly, his shoulders slumped and head hung low, a perfect picture of dejection. Once inside the jailhouse, Holmes checked him for additional weapons, keys, or lock picks, and finding none, locked him in the second cell. Holmes had occupied it just that morning; it now felt so very long ago.

Crowe grabbed the bars and scowled. "I was so damn close!"

"Only counts in horseshoes, my friend," replied Lawler.

Holmes spoke. "There is one thing I wish to know. How did you learn of the Blombergs in the first place?"

"Luck, mostly," replied Crowe with a sigh. "Back in Chicago, I've got a few acquaintances among the up-and-coming actors, and we were out for drinks. One drunken sot kept going on about how rich his sister in Iowa was, and well, I saw a chance and took it, and let Wright in on it in case there was trouble. I really never killed a man, y'see, and didn't want to start now."

"Too late for any of that now," said Lawler.

"Perhaps," replied Crowe. "But I'm not done. One day, I'll pull something big enough the whole world will ring with my name."

I could not help but think he was hardly in a position to make such a statement, but only time would tell.


	44. A Quiet Moment

_**Chapter Forty-Four**_

 **A Quiet Moment**

Lawler volunteered to stay behind and keep watch over Crowe that night.

"Thank you both for what you've done for us here," Lawler said.

Holmes extended a hand. "You too were invaluable," he said, giving Lawler a rare flash of a smile as they shook hands.

"About time you fellas got back to town," Lawler said to me.

I shook his hand as well. "I suppose it is."

"This ain't 'goodbye,' gents," said Lawler, with a stern look. "If I hear you've left the country without visiting me again, you'll never hear the end of it."

I laughed. "No danger of that, my good man."

We bid him good evening and returned to the station. The ticket window was shut, and a young man was preparing to lock the doors, but Holmes convinced a man to rent us his wagon for the evening, and Holmes drove us back to Wall Lake. The jostling was painful; one rut in the road jolted me enough that I was unable to silence a soft groan before it escaped my lips. Holmes turned to look at me, brows low over his eyes.

"A 'scratch' indeed," he said. "Next time, do not lie to me."

"I did not wish to be left behind," I replied.

He nodded. "I know, old fellow. How bad is it?"

"I should only need a few stitches, I think, though I will be a bit tired from all this blood loss, and these clothes will give the laundress nightmares."

When we arrived in Wall Lake, we learned that the two horses fortunately had found their way back to the stable, but Kelly would have to return for them himself, as the boy, quite understandably, would not let us near.

We continued south out of town to the Kelly's. They had brought my doctor's bag inside and the Sheriff was lying on the couch while Jack and his parents stood restlessly.

Jack nearly jumped out of his skin when we entered. "Did you do it? Crowe's in jail?"

I grinned. "We did."

The Sheriff clapped his hands and made to rise, then grimaced and resumed his supine position. While Holmes and Kelly went out to bring the borrowed horses into the barn, I approached Sheriff Sweet and checked him for injuries. There were no broken bones, but his arm was bleeding again, and he had two bruised ribs. I patched him up as best I could, then took a seat and replaced the bandages on my side. All the while, Holmes was telling the others what occurred since we left the Kelly's barn. We kept our voices low, but one by one, little footsteps were heard down the hall and soon all three pyjama-clad children were peering round the corner, to my amusement and their mother's dismay. She attempted to shoo them gently back to bed, but they would not be deterred.

Frank tottered in and tugged on my sleeve. "Did ya get the bad fellas? Are they in jail?"

"They surely are," I said, then frowned and turned to the Sheriff.

"What of Wright?" I asked. "Has he been secured somewhere?"

Sheriff Sweet nodded. "I have a cousin on the edge of town here who agreed to keep him handcuffed and tied in a spare bedroom till I can take him to jail, which I'd reckoned on doing tonight, but I think I may wait until the morning."

I yawned and checked the time. It was only a quarter past twelve, but it felt more like three in the morning.

"I believe it's time for us to return to the inn," I said.

"You two will have to fill me in on the details tomorrow so I can get all the damn paperwork straight," said the Sheriff. "Des Moines is going to want to know what happened here, so it doesn't happen again, what with Crowe impersonating one of their detectives."

Holmes nodded. "We shall meet you at the jail, though I don't intend to take the first train. In fact, we have a wagon we must return, anyway."

"Don't worry about that," said Kelly. "I've got business I need to take care of in Sac City anyway, and you've nowhere to care for the horses tonight. They can stay in my barn."

"Thank you," said Holmes, and I seconded. We each rose and prepared to take our leave.

"Will we ever see you again?" asked Will, hugging my leg.

"Perhaps," I replied. "But you can always write to me or to Holmes."

Holmes smiled and dug a calling card out of a pocket. He handed it to the lad. "That address will find one or both of us."

"Thank you, Mr. Detective!" cried Frank.

Jack approached us, shaking his head at his younger siblings. "It's been an honour to work with you gentlemen," he said, and shook each of our hands in turn.

"The honour is ours," I replied.

Mr. Kelly shook our hands and Mrs. Kelly embraced each of us warmly, and I noted that Holmes did not even flinch away from the latter.

* * *

At long last, we left the Kelly's warm little home and began the trek back to the inn. The most difficult aspects of a long case were often the goodbyes, I mused.

"They will write," said Holmes, deducing my train of thought. "Of that I am certain."

"I know it," I replied. "I shall still miss this place and the people in it."

Holmes nodded. "How is your side?"

"Done bleeding, at any rate," I replied, shivering and speeding up my pace a little.

"Good," replied Holmes.

"Though I still need to clean and wrap it a bit better," I added. "It's not at the easiest angle to reach."

"Let us both stop in my room so I can give you a hand with it, if need be."

I nodded.

"I don't intend to leave tomorrow morning until nine or ten," said Holmes. "You need a full night's rest."

"Will you sleep?" I asked.

Holmes smiled. "Yes, Doctor."

We were soon out of the cold and back at the inn. Unfortunately, we found our rooms to be little warmer than the outdoors. Holmes rekindled the fires in both rooms while I removed bloodied coat, jacket, waistcoat, shirt and all the bandaging from my side and examined the injury. It was deeper than I'd realised at first, which would explain why it was still bleeding (or had resumed doing so) and why I was beginning to feel a little dizzy and weak. I grabbed a cloth and made my way to the washbasin to begin gently wiping away the mostly dried blood surrounding the wound.

Holmes returned from lighting the fire in my room and stopped a moment in the doorway, grimacing.

"It's a bit worse than I thought," I noted. "I did a little more moving about than was advisable."

"Good Lord, man," Holmes replied, eyebrows raised. "You chased down a moving train and convinced all those on board that I'm not a fraud, and all the while you were bleeding out like this and didn't say a word about it?"

I chuckled, but the action jarred my side and I stopped.

My friend's expression turned from surprise to concern. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"Clean the blood off my back, to begin with," I said, handing him the cloth. "I can't see it, but I can feel it there."

He nodded and set to work. "You know, Watson, I truly am impressed with what you accomplished tonight."

"What _we_ accomplished," I corrected. "I would never have made it on the train if not for you and for Lawler's horse."

"I suppose not," Holmes replied. "All the same, I feel as if I owe you something, after all of this."

"Nonsense," I replied. "I'm glad to assist you on these cases. Perhaps you could take care of the back half of my stitches and we call it even?"

Holmes smiled sadly and set down the cloth. "Of course I shall help sew you together," he said. "But I believe I owe you a number of apologies."

I was on the point of telling him it was unnecessary, but something in his expression stopped me.

"I both expected too much from you and took you for granted during this case, and for that I am truly sorry," he said. He stared into the washbasin, water now stained pink, brows furrowed and some emotion in his eyes I could not recall seeing there before. I shifted my gaze to the small fire in the grate.

"It is always an honour and usually a pleasure to work with you," I said with a smile. "It is more than enough to know I am helping a good man create a more just world, one small corner of it at a time. I can ask no more than that." I looked again at my friend to gauge his reaction to my words.

Holmes met my eyes with a smile. "I never shall get your limits," he said softly.

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes, I am quite the enigma," I said. "Though you always say I'm an open book."

Holmes laughed aloud. "You know what I meant."

I did. Sherlock Holmes had many strengths, but voicing thoughts such as these was not among them. I was only glad we were seeing eye to eye once more, and I hoped it would remain this way for years to come.

"Shall I fetch the needle and thread from your bag?" asked Holmes.

I nodded.

"Anything to deaden the pain?"

"No, not yet," I sighed. "Afterwards, perhaps, but I need my wits about me for now."

Holmes' lips pressed into a thin line as he handed me the needle and thread.

I threaded the needle and set to work stitching the wound closed, managing to finish perhaps two thirds before the angle was too awkward and I allowed Holmes to take over. Though my friend had never taken the time to pursue a formal medical education, he did take several classes on the subject to supplement his professional knowledge, and his loathing of hospitalisation led to his urging me to teach him a few basic medical tasks, stitches among them. I was glad for it now; the difference in quality was clear, but no worse than the average medical student.

When Holmes had completed the stitches, he handed me my bandaging and I wrapped them carefully around the wound, now barely bleeding, and put a clean shirt on. Holmes had left my side only for a moment (to fetch that clean shirt), but his mind was elsewhere; his expression was pensive and distant. I cleaned my medical tools and began replacing them in my bag, giving an unexpected mighty yawn.

"Go to bed, Watson," said Holmes. "I can put all that away."

I gave a half-hearted attempt to wave his offer away, but I was really too tired to put up a fight. I gathered up my bloodied clothes. "Good night, Holmes," I said as I left.

"Good night, my dear fellow," he replied.


	45. Denouement

_**Chapter Forty-Five**_

 **Denouement**

I slept fitfully, but through most of the night and later into the morning than I intended. Light was streaming through the window and my head and side were throbbing in tandem. With a groan, I hauled myself out of bed and dressed quickly. I knocked on Holmes' door, but there was no reply, so I made my way to the dining room, where I found him seated with a newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee.

"Good morning, Watson," he said. "The next train to Sac City leaves in ten minutes, but I presume you would like to eat first?"

"Would I ever," I replied, seating myself across from him. "I've skipped quite enough meals during this case."

Holmes smiled. "I suspected as much."

After a hearty breakfast, we took the ten-thirty train to Sac City, where the Sheriff was more than eager to see us.

"I'm so glad you fellas are here," said Sheriff Sweet when we entered. "The paperwork Des Moines needs is an absolute nightmare."

"The real reason Holmes is a consultant," I said with a grin.

Holmes chuckled. "Not completely inaccurate, I'm afraid, but I'm willing to assist, nonetheless."

Sheriff Sweet nodded. "Good of you. The main things I need are a list of all evidence and its significance, including things later lost or destroyed, and I'd also like to hear your account of what happened the night Hieman was killed and Mrs. Blomberg's jewels were taken."

The Sheriff sat behind his desk and Holmes and I seated ourselves on the other side of it.

"Let us begin with the evidence," replied Holmes. "Watson, have you your notebook with you?"

I nodded, pulling it out of my jacket pocket. "I have notes from all but yesterday."

"Excellent," he replied, retrieving his own. "Between us, we ought to be able to finish this list."

It was a somewhat tedious process, and took well over an hour, but the Sheriff managed to complete his list. It was time to move on to the account of the night of the crimes.

"As little as I savour the idea," I said, "I believe we ought to do this within earshot of our two criminals so they can interject and correct us as necessary."

Sheriff Sweet and Holmes both nodded. Sweet gathered a few sheets of paper and a pen while Holmes grabbed three chairs. I opened the door and let the others through.

Crowe and Wright could be heard speaking in hushed tones when I opened the door, but they stopped as soon as we entered.

"I've got paperwork to do," said the Sheriff, "so Holmes here is going to run through what happened the night you fellas wreaked havoc on Wall Lake, so holler if he messes anything up. Clear?"

I glanced to Holmes, who was exchanging an icy look with Crowe.

"View's a bit different this way around, isn't it?" said Holmes with a smile.

"Don't antagonise him," said the Sheriff. "Not because he doesn't deserve it, but because we want an honest account, and riling people up isn't the best way to go about it."

Holmes nodded and we seated ourselves in a sort of semicircle facing the cells, with Holmes in the middle and the Sheriff and me on either side. The Sheriff and I readied our pens and papers.

"The afternoon of January 8th, Pat Crowe and Jesse Cleveland Wright took a train southwest from Chicago and arrived in Wall Lake after dusk but well before the last trains north or south departed. They crept into the home of the Blombergs via the front door, whose lock Crowe picked, and Crowe stole upstairs while Wright remained guard downstairs."

Wright broke in. "I followed upstairs, once Crowe figured out it wasn't too creaky."

Holmes gave a nod. "Crowe stole up the stairs and Wright followed after. Once in the master bedroom, Crowe cracked the safe—a considerable feat, I must admit—and emptied it of all valuables. He then removed the earrings from Mrs. Blomberg's ears for good measure and realised that Wright had taken a handkerchief of Mr. Blomberg's and placed it on the sill."

"I was against it," said Crowe. "But before we could argue about it, one or the other of them shifted in their sleep and we leapt out the window before they could wake and practically dashed back to the train station. It was about ten, but being a Friday, the last trains were yet to come."

"The two had plans to meet with young Bill Brogden, son of the shopkeeper in Sac City, but Brogden missed the appointed hour, and by a strange chance, Hieman was on his way back from rejection by his fiancée. They mistook Hieman for their man, and he went along with it. He convinced them to board the train back to Wall Lake with him and part with the most valuable of their loot."

Crowe spoke. "We were under the impression we would be meeting somewhere in Sac City, but Hieman quickly talked us round to the inconspicuousness of a train as a place to meet and reassured us that the last train back from Wall Lake to Sac City had not yet departed."

"He offered us liquor," added Wright, "which led to several boneheaded moves that night."

"Like murdering my best deputy?" growled the Sheriff.

"We shall come to that soon enough," replied Holmes. "Let us continue in the order these events occurred. The train arrived in Wall Lake, and Hieman departed with Mrs. Blomberg's heirloom necklace and a couple others among the most expensive items. Crowe and Wright then took the last train back to Sac City, and as yet they did not doubt that it was Brogden with whom they met. They arrived in Sac City and made their way to the abandoned house past the edge of town, where we later captured Wright." Holmes halted a moment, brows furrowed. "What prompted you then to return to Wall Lake, and how did you do it?"

"The real Brogden showed up at our hiding place—he was the one who told us where we could stay, relatively unnoticed—and told us his mother and one of his sisters had fallen ill and with his father gone, he'd had to care for them and had not been able to get away till then. He helped us figure out who it was we talked to and gave us directions to his place. We also discovered that he was just a kid, younger even than we thought, and cutting these jewels for us would take several times longer than we'd supposed, but he'd agreed to do it for dirt cheap, so we gave him most of the loot and he let us take his parents' two horses back to Wall Lake."

Holmes nodded, but the frown did not leave his face.

"It wasn't the perfect crime, I'll admit," said Crowe. "We'd bungled it up so badly—"

" _You_ had bungled it up so badly," sneered Wright.

"Fine," said Crowe. "I'd screwed things up at every turn, but I really wanted that necklace, and we needed Hieman out of the way if we were to stick around, as he could surely identify either of us. Murder wasn't my first choice, but…"

"It was my first choice," said Wright with a trace of a grin.

The Sheriff seemed to be biting his tongue to keep from speaking.

"The two rode back to Wall Lake on the Brogden family horses and arrive at the home of the Hiemans. They saw a light coming from an upstairs window near the back of the house but decided to enter regardless. They crept up the stairs and found it was Hieman, with a bottle of whiskey and a few odds and ends before him on the table. He had been drinking for some time due to the loss of his fiancée and had already opened the window. Wright incapacitated him easily—"

"We can't gloss over the only thing I did," Wright complained.

"Then give us a fuller account," said Holmes coldly.

"I crept up quietly behind him. He stood three feet away from the open window, muttering to himself. I grabbed him by the neck and used a combination of brute force and a couple advanced baritsu techniques to knock him unconscious, then struck him hard at the base of his skull and threw him headlong into the snow. I was certain he was dead, but Crowe insisted on checking."

"He was dead," replied Crowe, whose face had turned a little grey. "We searched everywhere for the goods we'd given him earlier in the evening, but they didn't turn up. By then it was too close to the time early risers awaken to stick around any longer and we rode back to Sac City and returned the horses."

The Sheriff spoke up. "Then what possessed you to decide to impersonate a Des Moines detective?"

Crowe coloured a little.

"It's a sweet story," said Wright, his expression and tone betraying his distaste for such things. "His girl, Hattie Murphy, always told him he'd be better off on the other side of the law. I don't imagine this was what she meant."

Crowe scowled. "That was my inspiration, yes. But I already had no chance of winning her back."

"Meanwhile," said Holmes, "Hieman had placed the jewels in a jar with rocks for the Kelly boys, likely for safekeeping until the morning. Several days later, the jar went to the Kelly's, but their grief kept them from examining the gift."

"Wonder why he did that," said Crowe.

"We'll never know, now," the Sheriff replied flatly.

Holmes only frowned.

"Perhaps he was being cautious, in case Crowe and Wright figured out the ruse," I suggested. "Or maybe it seemed convenient to him to make the two deliveries, the diamonds, and the rocks, in one go; after all, the Blombergs and the Kelly's live in the same direction from the Hieman's home."

"Those do seem to be likely possibilities," Holmes replied. "Regardless, the trip was never made. Meanwhile, Crowe laid low a couple days, then began his charade as Marshall Reagan, hoping he would find the remaining jewels in the first week. When a week, then two or more passed, he and Wright decided they needed eyes and ears more than his. Wright's appearance was rather too clearly that of the murderer from the 'wanted' ads, so he hired Silas Albright. As the investigation wore on, and Watson and I arrived, he grew more and more curious about things Crowe and Wright did not wish him to know. In the meantime, Crowe also broke into the Blomberg residence a second time." Holmes looked to Crowe. "What did you hope to gain by this?"

"There's no real secret to it," replied Crowe. "I needed to bring Wright more food, and I was receiving no income at this time; Des Moines wasn't paying me, like all of you were meant to think, and I hadn't the chance to sell any of the cut jewels. Some things I did purchase, while I was here, but some I stole from those who seemed wealthy enough they would not miss it. I didn't realise their housekeeping girl was so close by." He shrugged.

I shook my head. "I was reading far more into that incident than there was, apparently."

Holmes gave a single nod. "Back to Albright, now. Wright attempted to keep him in the dark about who the second man was, so even if he betrayed them, Crowe's position would remain secure. But Albright grew increasingly sloppy in his efforts to watch others out of sight and began to suspect the truth about Crowe. He was now more of a liability than an asset and Wright arranged his murder to look like a suicide."

"I was all for blackmail," said Crowe. "He had regrets coming out of his ears, but Wright insisted."

"The second death for Wall Lake," said Holmes. "But whose revolver was in his hand?"

"Mine," said Wright. "I keep several around, and Crowe promised it would go with police evidence, so he could steal it back when this was all over."

"It was cleverly constructed, though I saw through it with relative ease," said Holmes. "Sheriff Sweet was not so easily convinced."

"I didn't know you so well then," replied the Sheriff.

"All the while, Crowe was doing his best to work himself into my confidence," Holmes continued. "He appealed to my ego, a rational choice, but a method I was using upon him in turn."

"I knew you were being too nice," said Crowe.

"I remain unconvinced," replied Holmes.

"Well, I do now, at any rate," Crowe muttered.

I caught a glimpse of Holmes smiling, but then his serious demeanour returned.

"The days wore on, and Watson and I were moving ever closer to the solution. The turning point came when we discovered Wright's hiding place just past the edge of town. Crowe accompanied us, so as not to lose our trust, but his hopes to undermine us were dashed when the Sheriff and Wright wounded one another. Wright was moved to jail, where he waited with mounting frustration for Crowe to break him out so they could leave town. At that point, they still might have gotten away clean, but Crowe wanted the missing jewels, and the Brogden boy was moving slowly indeed. Out of desperation, Crowe broke into my rooms at the inn and stole all the evidence he could find, a devastating blow to our investigation. I rashly decided to steal the Blomberg jewels from young Brogden, and left them here at the jail, where it was far too easy for Crowe to meddle with the note and frame me. I had begun to suspect Crowe, among several others, but it was not until I was arrested that I realised the truth. While Watson begged and borrowed for bail money, I sat in the cell, planning our next move. It was clear that Crowe wanted one of us to find the remaining jewels, so he could take them and leave town. As little as I cared for the idea of playing into his hand, it seemed the best path. It took a little thought and time, but we soon located the jewels at the Kelly's and laid our trap." Holmes flashed a small smile. "The rest we all know, I think."

"Excellent," said the Sheriff as he scrawled down a few final words. "I daresay our work here is done, then." He stood.

Holmes and I rose as well, and we each shook his hand in turn.

"Keep us informed," said Holmes, handing him a calling card. "I should like to know how all of this pans out."

Sheriff Sweet nodded. "Certainly. I'll send word as soon as the trial's over." He smiled, looking at both of us. "Well, I never suspected when you fellas showed up that I'd take a liking to you, but I have, and I'll be sad to see you go."

"I will miss this place," I replied. "Not the jail in particular, but this corner of the world."

The Sheriff chuckled and nodded.

We gathered our chairs and returned to the Sheriff's office. Before the door closed behind me, I cast a glance backward at Wright and Crowe. Wright was glassy-eyed, gazing straight ahead, but Crowe fixed me with a venomous stare. I felt a shiver run down my spine and quickly closed the door.


	46. Epilogue

_**Chapter Forty-Six**_

 **Epilogue**

Sheriff Sweet unlocked a small safe in the corner and pulled out a parcel. "Mrs. Blomberg's jewels are all in here. I thought you two might want to be the ones to return them."

"Excellent," said Holmes, taking the package. "We shall do so yet this morning." He paused and eyed the Sheriff curiously. "Des Moines would not have you keep them for evidence?"

"Just the diamond necklace," he said. "That ought to be enough to satisfy them."

Holmes nodded.

"How is your arm today?" I asked the Sheriff.

He shrugged. "I took a beating last night, but I expect things will be quiet enough around here long enough for me to heal up. One last thing," he said, reaching into the safe again and pulling out an envelope. He handed it to me. "I believe this is yours."

I opened it and thumbed through the seven hundred dollars. "More or less," I replied. "I intend to return what I borrowed from the kind people in this region."

Sheriff Sweet nodded. "Well, it's been an honour, gentlemen. Save travels."

"Thank you," I said, and Holmes nodded.

Holmes and I had only a few remaining errands. We returned Miss Lena Hallstrom's money with sincere thanks and wished her luck with her plans to become a schoolteacher. The Blomberg home was our next stop, so we took the train back to Wall Lake and made our way there. Mr. Blomberg was home over the noon hour, so we were able to return the jewellery and tell the tale to both of them. They were glad to hear so much of it had been recovered, especially the heirloom necklace, and after shedding a tear or two in sheer relief, Mrs. Blomberg apologised for not being forthright with us at the beginning.

"I should have told you," she said, "but my sister Alice, the unmarried one, is pregnant. I did not want people to know, the scandal of it, but a gentleman friend of hers has agreed to marry her now, so it's all right in the end." She frowned. "I apologise if I led you down the wrong path by not simply telling you what we spoke of at dinner that night."

"All is well in the end," replied Holmes with a flash of a smile.

We figured our travel and living expenses so far, and what we expected the return trip to be, and the Blombergs happily paid that much along with Holmes' standard fee. It was a goodly sum.

We visited Anderson next. He thanked us repeatedly, with bright eyes and thick voice, and Holmes quietly declined payment. Mrs. Hieman was our next visit, and she was quickly reduced to tears, though it was clear she valued the closure we had brought to her and her family. We dropped by Lawler's home a final time, where he threw back the coffee-stained sheet and showed us his corn-picking contraption. It was a strange-looking metal thing, with a confusing assortment of chains and hooks and bars supported by large wheels. I could make neither heads nor tails of it, but Lawler and Holmes both agreed it was the future of farming, and Holmes insisted that he write to us once he had it patented.

I was truly sorry when it was time to leave, but I was looking forward to sitting in my own chair and sleeping in my own bed. After a late lunch, we packed our things, paid the innkeeper, and took an afternoon train north to Chicago, before retracing our steps to the coast and boarding a ship back across the ocean.

* * *

So it was that just one month after we departed from Wall Lake, Holmes and I found ourselves back at Baker Street, reading a letter from Sheriff Sweet over breakfast.

"How did everything shake out?" I asked.

Holmes snorted. "Watson, your vocabulary has developed a dreadfully American quality and retained it for a remarkable period. But to answer your question, young Brogden was let off with a warning, Crowe was given twenty years, and Wright will hang for it.

I gave a nod. There was a brief silence. "What do you suppose Crowe will do when he gets out?" I asked.

"With ambition like his," Holmes replied, "it's hard to say what he will put his mind to next, but I'll wager he won't be in prison for long."

I had to agree, but only time would tell.

"Tell me, Watson," said Holmes. "Have you thought of travelling?"

Before I could respond, something white flashed into my vision and smacked me on the side of the face. I looked down to see an unopened envelope laying in my lap.

"For goodness' sake, Holmes!" I said with an exasperated laugh.

"It's postmarked from a coastal town in Italy," he replied. "Warm weather, you know."

I only scowled.

"I was not aiming for your head," he added leaping to his feet and holding his arms up in a gesture of surrender.

"Don't give me that," I replied, wagging a finger at him. "Your aim is not nearly so poor." With a flick of the wrist, I returned the missive to Holmes, who ducked before it could give him the treatment it had given me. "Perhaps I would like a holiday in Italy," I said, slipping out of my chair and taking several steps backward, "though this time I'd prefer to come home in one piece, and travelling with a man who throws the post at his fellow-lodger hardly seems the way to do it!"

"Ha!" he exclaimed, and grabbing the morning paper, threw it in my direction. "Just remember, old chap, I am not the one who started this!"

Within seconds, the sitting room was a war zone, and Holmes and I were laughing like schoolboys. I hit Holmes squarely in the nose with a particularly brown envelope, and my friend gave a shout of indignation.

"Half a moment!" he cried, staring at the envelope I had thrown at him.

"What is it?" I asked, stepping carefully around the newspapers and envelopes scattered on the floor

"Look at the ink," said he.

I did, but saw nothing remarkable. "What does it tell you?"

"Everything," Holmes replied. "Best put on your coat!"

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered the room, and gasped when she saw the mess we had made.

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!" she cried. "What on earth have you been doing in here?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes replied, snatching up his overcoat and hat, "but we really must be off!"

"Where are we going?" I asked, putting on my coat.

"You shall find out when we get there," Holmes replied with a grin, and we slipped out of the flat before Mrs. Hudson could berate us further.

And with that, we were off on another adventure—a thrilling one, I might add—but this story, the Wall Lake Mystery, has come to a close.

The End.


	47. Historical Notes

**Historical Notes**

While this novel is a work of fiction, I thought I would include a few notes about the real, historical people and places I included.

\- Pat Crowe - Crowe was a truly famous American criminal. He was a skilled burglar, and after the time this story takes place, went on to pull off the first successful kidnapping with a ransom in America, went into hiding, then turned up years later in Montana asking to be arrested. Despite the prosecution's 40 witnesses, a firsthand account of a confession to a priest, and no testimony by his defense, Crowe was acquitted by a jury. He went on to become a lecturer and writer, and ultimately died, impoverished, in Harlem. He saw himself as a sort of Robin Hood figure, and according to his autobiography, one of his nicknames when he was a young criminal was Kid Shivers. Read his Wikipedia page for more, or check out his autobiography (of dubious accuracy, but quite a read).

— Wikipedia DOT o*r*g / wiki / Pat_Crowe

— Catalog DOT hathitrust DOT o*r*g / Record / 006659285

\- Patrick Lawler - Lawler was a real Wall Lake resident, and he invented the corn-picking machine in 1885. He got the patent for it in 1890, and refused to sell it to a large Chicago company. Unfortunately, the idea was about sixty years ahead of its time, and Lawler lost his farm after putting too much of his funds towards getting his invention to go mainstream. The original machine was sold for scrap in 1932, but his idea really did revolutionize farming. He's fallen into obscurity, so I hope this tale gives his legacy a little new life. If you'd like to read a bit more about him, there's a PDF on the University of Iowa's website I'll link you to.

— Ir . uiowa . edu / cgi / viewcontent . cgi?article=7941&context=annals-of-iowa

\- The Kelly Family - William and Mary Kelly and their four children really lived on the edge of Wall Lake during this time. According to old family records, "Road agent, outlaw Pat Crowe was discovered spending the night in the barn by Jack. He reportedly pulled a gun and threatened Jack to leave and not to report his whereabouts to the law for fear of reprisal." That's all there is to the true story, but I thought it begged to be embellished into a Holmes novel.

\- Everyone else is fictional. For the people of Wall Lake and the surrounding region, I used old census records to choose surnames that would likely have been used in the region at this time, but any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

\- The obituary quotes in Chapter 19 were unabashedly stolen from a real obituary, from 1904, which can be found here

— Findagrave DOT c*o*m / memorial / 95174428 / jobe-r_-randall

\- Wall Lake and Surrounding Area - Wall Lake, Fletcher (now known as Lake View), Sac City, and all the cities and towns included or mentioned in this story are real places, and the railroads used to travel between them were actually there, to the best of my researching ability. I even managed to visit Wall Lake once. If you shoot me a message or an email, I'll share a picture of me grinning like a silly tourist in front of an unremarkable sign reading "North Wall Lake". Wall Lake is now best known as the birthplace of singer Andy Williams.

\- I really wanted to include the Statue of Liberty in Chapter Two, even wrote it in, and then discovered it wasn't installed until October of that year. So just imagine it in all its original shiny, coppery glory.

\- And lastly: I realized while editing that a handful of scenes were heavily influenced by _Back to the Future III._ If you've never seen those movies, or it's been a while, you should totally go watch them.

Thanks for sticking with me till the end. As always, I notice and appreciate every single comment, review, follower, favorite, like, message, etc. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


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